The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound.
The warmth of the royal infirmary faded the moment King Aldric Vaelthorne stepped into the corridor.
The palace halls stretched wide and tall, built not just to impress—but to endure.
Polished marble floors reflected the golden glow of chandeliers suspended from high vaulted ceilings. Each column was carved with intricate patterns—records of past victories, royal lineages, and ancient symbols that few in the modern age could fully interpret.
The air here felt colder.
Sharper.
Controlled.
But beneath that control—
The King's thoughts churned.
"…Your Majesty."
A voice joined him from behind.
Measured. Familiar.
Lord Seredin Valcrest fell into step beside him, his robes brushing lightly against the marble as he walked. His posture was perfect, his expression calm—but his eyes carried quiet calculation.
"I assume you heard everything."
The King spoke without looking at him.
"…Enough to understand the gravity of it."
They walked side by side, their footsteps echoing faintly through the long corridor.
"…Veyrith."
Seredin said the name carefully.
Not loudly.
As if the walls themselves might remember it.
The King's gaze remained forward.
"…Yes."
A pause.
"…The Messenger."
Seredin's brows furrowed slightly.
"…Then the old records…"
"…Were not exaggerations."
They passed by a series of towering windows that overlooked the capital.
From above, the city appeared peaceful.
Merchants arranged their goods.
Children ran through narrow streets.
Carriages moved along stone-paved roads.
Life continued—
Unaware.
"…If word spreads…"
Seredin began.
"…It won't just be fear."
"…It will be collapse."
"…Trade routes will shut down."
"…Caravans will refuse travel."
"…The outer regions may isolate themselves."
He adjusted the documents in his hand.
"…And the nobles…"
A pause.
"…Will prioritize their own survival."
"…And the people?"
The King finally stopped walking.
He turned slightly—
Looking down at the city below.
"…They will panic."
His voice was quiet.
Certain.
"…Then we suppress it."
Seredin replied immediately.
"…Contain the information."
"…Limit knowledge to the palace."
"…If the people don't know…"
"…They won't fear."
"…Fear doesn't require knowledge."
The King's voice cut through calmly.
"…It only needs presence."
He turned fully now.
"…If something like Veyrith is moving…"
A pause.
"…It will be seen again."
"…And next time…"
His gaze hardened.
"…It may not observe."
Seredin fell silent.
Because he understood.
This wasn't speculation.
It was inevitability.
They resumed walking.
The palace shifted as they moved deeper.
The grand decorations faded into something more functional—dark stone walls, fewer ornaments, more guards.
This was where decisions were made.
Not displayed.
Large doors stood before them, engraved with the royal crest—a crowned dragon encircled by five stars.
The doors opened.
Inside—
A vast chamber of strategy.
Shelves filled with ancient records lined the walls. Maps stretched across one side, marked with trade routes, territorial borders, and faint annotations only a trained eye could read.
A heavy desk stood at the center.
Not decorative.
Purposeful.
The King stepped inside.
"…We cannot control the battlefield."
He moved toward the map.
"…But we can control how we prepare for it."
Seredin followed.
"…You're thinking of the guilds."
The King nodded.
"…They reach where we cannot."
"…Adventurers."
"…Mercenaries."
"…Merchants."
A pause.
"…The people trust them."
"…If something like this spreads…"
"…They will be the first to encounter it."
The King placed his hand firmly on the map.
"…And the first to die."
Silence filled the room.
"…Call them."
Seredin looked up.
"…All major guild masters?"
"…Yes."
The King didn't hesitate.
"…Quietly."
"…Urgently."
Seredin moved to a side table.
He prepared parchment, ink, and seal.
His movements were precise—each letter written with intent, each stroke clean and deliberate.
"…What shall the message convey?"
The King spoke without turning.
"…Royal summons."
A pause.
"…Immediate attendance required at the palace."
Seredin melted wax over the folded parchment.
Then—
Pressed the royal seal into it.
The crest formed perfectly.
Unmistakable.
"…It will reach them by nightfall."
The scene shifted.
From silence—
To life.
The guild hall roared with activity.
Laughter clashed with arguments.
Metal struck against wood.
Boots echoed across worn floors.
Requests were pinned across a large board, constantly shifting as adventurers took and completed jobs.
The air smelled of sweat, steel, and cooked meat.
This was not a place of order.
This was a place of survival.
The doors opened.
A courier stepped in.
Clad in royal insignia.
The noise didn't stop—
But it changed.
Subtly.
People noticed.
A knock echoed against a thick wooden door.
"…Enter."
Inside—
A massive man sat behind a heavy desk.
Broad shoulders.
Thick arms.
A beard that framed a hardened face.
Dorian Varkas.
His presence alone could silence a room.
The door opened.
A woman stepped in.
Sharp posture.
Clean uniform.
Eyes focused.
Selene Arkwright.
"…A letter, Guild Master."
She placed the envelope on the desk.
"…From the palace."
Dorian glanced at it casually—
Then paused.
His eyes locked onto the seal.
"…Royal…"
He leaned forward slightly.
Picked it up.
Turned it in his hand.
"…This isn't routine."
He broke the seal.
Unfolded the letter.
Read it once.
Then again.
His expression didn't change much.
But his eyes—
Sharpened.
"…Immediate summons…"
A low breath escaped him.
"…So it's begun."
"…Should I prepare your departure?"
Selene asked.
Dorian stood slowly.
"…Yes."
A pause.
"…And clear my schedule."
He folded the letter carefully.
"…Something big just moved."
Outside—
The kingdom continued its rhythm.
Unaware.
Unshaken.
For now.
But in the shadows of power—
Decisions were being made.
And those decisions—
Would determine whether the kingdom would stand…
Or fall.