The Phoenix Pavilion was lit brighter than it had ever been. Rows of candles in tall bronze holders cast golden light across the walls where carved phoenixes rose in flight, their wings spread wide as though lifting the ceiling itself. The polished marble floors gleamed, and the long tables groaned beneath the weight of feast offerings — roasted game, platters of fruit, flagons of wine, and bowls of steaming broth.
Yet the Pavilion was not a place of celebration tonight. It was a theater. And the actors were the elders and envoys of Issielios.
The great doors opened again and again as delegations arrived, each bearing gifts wrapped in silk, carried in ornate chests, or borne proudly in both hands. The air thickened with the scent of incense and perfume, mingling uneasily with the roasted meats, the smell of wine, and the faint metallic tang of polished steel.
At the head of the main table sat Varun Latian, silent and still, a mountain of a man with eyes that weighed and measured all. To his right sat Zed, upright, composed, his iron staff leaning against the wall behind him. His face gave nothing away. His very stillness carried a weight that made the envoys glance more than once, as if the shadow of the Beast King still clung to him.
One by one, the envoys rose to offer their words and their gifts.
Elder Maedran of the Veylin Clan was first, his robe a shimmer of green silk embroidered with silver threads. His smile seemed warm, but his eyes were calculating, sliding across the Latian table like knives.
"Clan Head Varun, Heir Zed," Maedran said smoothly, his voice carrying the polish of a man used to diplomacy. "Issielios owes you its breath. Had the Beast King not fallen, the tide would have drowned us all. The Veylin Clan brings thanks."
Two attendants lifted a chest forward and opened it. Rolls of silk lay within, deep green and silver, shimmering under the candlelight.
"Cloth for leaders," Maedran said, his smile widening. "For those destined to stand above."
The words were heavy with suggestion. His eyes lingered on Zed.
Zed inclined his head slightly. A nod. Acknowledgment, but not acceptance. Maedran's smile faltered for just a heartbeat before he fixed it again.
Next came Halvek of the Drakehorn Clan, a man built like a wall of muscle, his arms bare beneath a sleeveless tunic. His steps were heavy as he laid a spear at the base of the dais. Its golden blade glinted sharp, its haft bound in black leather.
"Strength respects strength," Halvek rumbled. His voice was deep as thunder. "The Beast King fell to your hand, Zed of Latian. May this weapon remind all who see it that you stand above beasts and men alike."
His gaze locked on Zed's, challenging and admiring in equal measure.
Zed did not look away. The silence between them was enough.
The Morvain envoy came next, frail but deliberate. Elder Sariel leaned on a staff of polished oak as his attendants unrolled scrolls across the table, ink glistening dark and fresh.
"Our clan has kept records of tides past," Sariel said, his voice thin, yet sharp enough to cut. "Histories of beasts, their numbers, their growth. Knowledge is as valuable as steel. We offer it freely, that Latian may not only survive but understand."
Varun inclined his head. "Knowledge is never wasted. Your gift is received."
Finally came the Leshonte Clan, cloaked in wealth. Elder Taren, tall and sharp-eyed, led them, and behind him walked two young women veiled in silken cloth, their movements graceful, their jewels flashing.
"Our clan offers wealth," Taren said, and servants opened heavy chests to reveal gems that glittered in a dozen colors — sapphires, emeralds, diamonds cut to brilliance. "And more than wealth. Bonds between clans are the strongest treasure. Issielios is strong only when tied together. We come not only with gifts, but with hope — of shared bloodlines, shared futures."
The words struck the table like a blade.
Every eye shifted to Zed.
He did not flinch. He did not smile. He lifted his goblet, drank once, then set it down. The silver rang against the polished wood like a bell.
When he spoke, his voice was calm, even.
"Latian honors the gifts of Issielios. Silk, steel, knowledge, wealth — each has its place. But alliances are not sealed in haste. The tide has ended, but wounds remain. Rebuilding comes first. Bloodlines may follow."
Not rejection. Not acceptance. A wall of stone.
Varun's eyes shifted slightly toward his son, unreadable. Perhaps a flicker of approval.
The envoys murmured, shifting in their seats. Maedran's smile thinned. Halvek grunted his approval. Sariel's lips pressed together. Taren of Leshonte folded his hands, the veiled women lowering their heads in silence.
After the gifts, the feast began, though little food was eaten. The talk turned to commerce.
Elder Sariel spread one of his scrolls across the center of the table. A map, roads and rivers traced in black. His finger tapped the lines.
"The Beast Tide has left scars. Caravans burned, bridges fallen. Trade cannot recover without cooperation. Latian's granaries are full, but wealth rots if it cannot move. We propose joint patrols — men from each clan, bound by oath, guarding Issielios' lifeblood."
Maedran leaned forward, a jeweled finger tapping the map. "And if caravans pass only through Latian lands? Then tolls and tariffs fatten Latian coffers alone. Shared protection must mean shared profit. Otherwise envy will poison allies."
The Pavilion stirred with low murmurs.
Then Varun raised his hand. The sound hushed instantly.
"Latian's roads will be open. Our patrols will ride. But the first duty is to the villages destroyed. Rebuilding fields, homes, walls. Until the people stand, commerce waits. The clan feeds them freely. That comes first."
The words were steady, final.
Zed spoke next, his voice sharp. "The granaries are full. We will not bleed them dry with tolls. Not yet. When the fields are green, when the roads are strong, then trade may fatten us all. For now, stability is worth more than gold."
The elders shifted. Some nodded reluctantly. Others remained silent, calculating.
The talk shifted again — this time to alliances. Elder Maedran raised his goblet, his smile thin as a blade.
"The King summons you, Zed. You will stand in the light of the throne. When that day comes, who stands beside you will matter. Bloodlines, names, ties — they shape futures as surely as steel. Think on this, Heir of Latian. A hand offered today may steady tomorrow's climb."
Zed set his goblet down. His eyes swept the table, steady and cold.
"My climb is mine. Those who walk beside me will not be chosen in haste, nor for fear. They will be chosen because they can endure the storm. The Beast King tested that. Many failed. Latian did not."
The hall stilled. Even the fire seemed to pause in the brazier.
No one spoke.
Then, thunder at the Pavilion doors. The great panels swung open, echoing against the stone.
A rider entered, cloak heavy with dust, boots striking hard against the polished floor. He carried no clan banner. Only a scroll bound in crimson thread, sealed with the crest of the crown.
The hall froze.
"By decree of His Majesty, King Azrael of Issielios," the rider intoned, his voice booming in the silence. He broke the seal, the wax snapping clean.
"Let it be known: Zed, son of Varun Latian, slayer of the Beast King, defender of Issielios, is summoned to the royal court in Caelumar. His deeds are to be recognized before the throne. Rewards and honors await him, by the King's hand."
The scroll lowered. Silence deeper than before.
Maedran's smile cracked. Halvek leaned forward, eyes burning. Sariel's lips thinned in thought. Taren's veiled daughters lowered their gazes, jewels flashing under the candlelight.
Zed rose slowly, his iron staff in hand, plain and unadorned, yet heavier than any jewel in the room. His eyes swept the envoys, steady and sharp.
"I did not strike for crowns or scrolls," he said, voice even. "I struck because the tide came for my people. The Beast King fell because it had to fall. Nothing more."
He turned to the messenger.
"I will answer the King's call."
The staff touched the floor with a sharp crack, echoing through the hall.
No more was said.
The envoys sat in silence, each hiding thoughts — envy, fear, calculation, hope. The firelight flickered, shadows long on the walls.
Latian had risen. Zed had risen. And nothing in Issielios would remain the same.