The Council gathered in the Hall of Stones — an ancient circular chamber at the heart of the royal castle. Its walls were built of grey granite brought long ago from the northern mountains, and its floor was laid with slabs marked by the boot-heels of hundreds of warriors who had come here over the last half-century. In the centre stood a broad oaken table, darkened by time and wax, upon which three candles burned in iron holders, casting trembling shadows across the faces of those assembled.
The King sat at the head of the table. He was old — the lines on his face resembled a map of dried rivers, and his hair, once dark, had long since turned grey. But his back remained straight, and his eyes were clear, like those of a man who had seen enough to fear death no longer. He was of those who remembered the Last War. He had personally led the cavalry on the Empress of Light's flank when they drove the Crimson back from the borders of the Forest. More than twenty years had passed since then, but the scars — both on his body and in his memory — remained.
To the King's left sat the First Councillor — tall, gaunt, in a dark-blue tunic with silver buttons. He was the court mage, and his fingers drummed nervously against the table not from fear, but from the excess of magical energy he was holding in check. He had felt the Moon's Appearance more keenly than the others — his artifacts in the tower still vibrated to this hour.
Opposite him, to the King's right, sat the Second Councillor — stocky, broad-shouldered, with rough hands and a face red from tension. He was the commander of the army, and war was his trade. He wore a simple leather coat rather than a robe, and he smelled of iron and horse-sweat.
The two Goblin-Councillors sat farther away, at the far end of the table.
The Elder Goblin was the chieftain of his people. His green hair was streaked with grey, braided into thin plaits with copper beads. He wore spectacles in a fine copper frame and a traditional burgundy cloak embroidered with the symbols of his clan. The years had made his face calm and his movements slow, but his gaze remained sharp.
The younger Goblin — with sharp features and restless movements — was the head of intelligence. He alone of the council did not sit, but stood by the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes moved constantly, tracking the others' reactions.
"The Appearance was no accident," the Mage spoke, breaking the silence. His voice was dry as cracking parchment. "My instruments registered a disturbance in the magical field a second before the Moon manifested. The source — somewhere on the border with the Crimson Wastes."
"'Somewhere,'" the Warlord snorted. "That is not enough. But I know who is to blame without magic. The Crimson. Their Demon Eyes have mobilized on the border. My patrols report five skirmishes in the last day alone. We have not seen such activity in years. They are brewing something in the Forest."
"Or they are reacting to the same event we are," the Elder Goblin said quietly, adjusting his spectacles. "Perhaps the Appearance caught them by surprise as much as it did us."
The Warlord turned to him. "You suggest we sit and wait?"
"I suggest we avoid hasty conclusions," the Elder Goblin spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "We do not know what exactly has happened. If we strike first and err — we shall have war on two fronts. The Necropolis is waiting for precisely that."
At the mention of the Necropolis, the younger Goblin, standing by the wall, gave a barely perceptible flinch. No one noticed — except the King.
"What say you?" the King addressed him directly.
The younger Goblin pushed off the wall. His voice was as quick as his movements: "My people report that the undead are stirring. Three villages on the eastern border have already been evacuated. They have not attacked yet — they are waiting. Waiting for us to be distracted by the Crimson."
"Then we must strike fast," the Warlord concluded. "One blow. One decisive battle."
The King raised his hand, and the argument fell silent. He spoke rarely, but when he spoke, all listened.
"We cannot attack alone," his voice was low but firm. "And we cannot wait. We must make contact with the Empire of Light."
"The Light?" the Mage shook his head. "They regard us as barbarians with goblins on our council."
"The Empress respects me," the King gave a faint, wry smile, and in that smile flickered a gleam of old strength. "We fought together. She knows that I would not ask without cause. If I ask — she will listen."
"Risky," remarked the Elder Goblin. "But reasonable."
The King nodded. "We shall send Aerius. On a griffin. Through the Forest."
At the mention of that name, all froze for a moment. Aerius was the finest rider in the Empire — silent, reliable, with twenty years of service behind him. His griffin, Goldcrest, had been trained from a fledgling and was worth more than the yearly budget of a small city.
"Aerius will manage," the King said shortly. "Summon him."
---
An hour later, Aerius stood in the royal stables — an enormous stone hangar on the outskirts of the castle, built specifically for flying mounts. Inside, it smelled of hay, feathers, and musk. Light streamed through high arched windows, falling upon Goldcrest — a magnificent griffin with golden-brown plumage and a lion's body the colour of ochre. The beast shifted impatiently from claw to claw on the stone floor and clicked his beak as Aerius tightened the saddle straps.
The messenger was clad in light leather armour with metal inserts at shoulders and chest — sturdy enough to withstand a claw-strike, yet light enough for flight. On his back was a small pack with supplies for two days: dried meat, a water flask, a firestarter, bandages. At his belt — a short sword and a dagger. In an inner pocket, beneath his armour, lay a letter sealed with the royal wax stamp and wrapped in oiled cloth to protect it from damp.
"Deliver this to the Empress personally," the King himself had come down to the stables to see the rider off. His voice was quiet, but there was weight in it. "To no one else. If you encounter cultists — do not engage. Your task is speed."
Aerius nodded in silence. He rarely spoke at all. He swung easily into the saddle, checked the girth, donned flight goggles with darkened lenses, and took up the reins.
"Open the gates!" someone among the stablehands shouted.
The great wooden doors parted, letting in a flood of fresh air and the grey light of an overcast morning. Goldcrest let out a piercing cry — a blend of eagle's screech and lion's roar — and surged forward. His talons clattered over stone, then earth, and then — a leap. Mighty wings spread, caught the air, and the griffin soared into the sky.
From the ground, he looked like a speck swiftly vanishing into the clouds.
---
In the Empire of Light
The flight through Erlingor Forest took nearly six hours. Aerius kept high — at an altitude where the trees seemed a carpet of green, and the air was thin and cold. He passed several giant trees, their crowns piercing the clouds. One of them — particularly massive — drew his attention: at its roots he glimpsed a tiny clearing where something glinted. But Aerius did not descend. Orders were orders.
By midday he reached the borders of the Empire of Light.
The Empire greeted him with blinding brilliance. Here, in the east, the sun always seemed brighter than anywhere else. The white marble towers of the Throne City rose toward the sky like the fangs of some gigantic luminous beast. The streets were paved with smooth stone along which figures in light-coloured garments hurried.
He was not permitted to land in the city centre. Sentinels on pegasi — winged horses with snow-white manes — intercepted him on approach and forced him down onto the outer visitors' platform. Aerius had expected this. The Empire of Light had always been famed for its paranoia.
He was searched — politely, but thoroughly. The letter was checked by magic for poison and illusion. Only then, escorted by two silent guards in golden armour, was he led through an enfilade of corridors into the Throne Hall.
The Hall was immense — larger than the entire royal castle of the humans. Its high vaulted ceiling vanished into a radiance that seemed to come from nowhere. Columns of white marble veined with gold rose upward like the trunks of celestial trees. At the end of the Hall, upon a dais, stood the throne.
The Empress of Light sat upon it, straight as a blade. Her face was young and beautiful, but her eyes — her eyes were as ancient as the world itself. She wore robes of white and gold that flowed as though woven from sunbeams, and behind her hovered translucent wings — not physical, but spun from the pure magic of Light. They pulsed slowly in time with her breath.
Aerius knelt at a distance of twenty paces from the throne — the guards would allow him no closer.
"Speak," the Empress said. Her voice was melodious, but utterly devoid of warmth. It was the sound a crystal bell might make, could it judge.
Aerius rose and handed the letter to one of the guards, who bore it to the throne. The Empress broke the seal — a dry crack echoed through the Hall — and unrolled the parchment. Her eyes ran swiftly over the lines.
Several minutes passed. The silence in the Hall was so profound that Aerius could hear his own heartbeat.
Then the Empress raised her head.
"Your King asks for an alliance. He reminds me of the Battle of Red Ravine. I remember that battle. I remember him." She fell silent for a moment. "He fought worthily. For a human."
From her lips, this sounded almost like a compliment.
"I agree. But on my terms. Unified command rests with me and my generals. Your army will serve in a support role. Do you accept these conditions?"
Aerius knelt once more.
"My King said: the Empress will set conditions. He will accept them."
The Empress gave a barely perceptible nod.
"Then listen. In three days, at dawn, we strike the Crimson Wastes from the east. Your forces must be ready to attack from the south at the same moment. You will receive coordinates and signals from my general. Now go. Your mission is complete."
She gestured, and the guards turned to escort Aerius back. But as he reached the exit, he heard her voice once more:
"Tell your King... to take care of himself. I do not wish my old ally to die before I see him in battle."
For the first time during the entire visit, something resembling emotion flickered in her voice.