A few weeks before the beast rose from the Torshavn dungeon.
The Hexagon Hall was a room where no ordinary soul dared to tread. Located at the very heart of the Palace of Light, hidden behind corridors accessible only to those of royal blood or special invitation, this chamber held more secrets than the entire Sol-Regis library. Its walls were lined with polished black stone, reflecting the glow of six crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling—each representing a territory of the kingdom. In the center of the room stood a sturdy, ancient blackwood round table, its surface intricately carved with a map of Aethelgard so detailed that every river and mountain seed to breathe with life.
Silence runes humd faintly in every corner. No sound could escape; no one could eavesdrop.
That night, the round table was surrounded by the most powerful figures in the realm.
King Edward IV sat in the highest seat—not a magnificent golden throne like the one in the Hall of Radiant Thrones, but a simple, high-backed wooden chair. The passage of ti was etched clearly upon him under the crystal light: his once-black hair was now dominated by grey, the lines on his face had deepened, and his eyes—once as sharp as an eagle’s—now often drifted, as if searching for sothing long lost.
To his right, Queen Eleanor sat with a spine of steel. Her shimring black gown, embroidered with gold thread, contrasted sharply with her frigid expression. Her hands were clasped atop the table, her fingers adorned with ruby rings that remained perfectly still. She was not nervous. She had been waiting for this mont for years.
To the King’s left sat Queen Marianne in a simpler, light blue gown. Her face was taut, her brow slightly furrowed. She had heard whispers regarding tonight’s agenda, and those whispers had robbed her of sleep for the past three nights.
Surrounding the table sat the princes and princesses of the realm.
Prince Leonardo, the Crown Prince, sat to Eleanor’s right. At thirty-two, his face was calm, his eyes moving slowly as he observed everyone in the room. He spoke little—he never did, not until he was certain of his words. In his lap lay a small notebook, filled with scribbles that only he could decipher.
Prince Cedric sat beside Leonardo. As the Royal Archmage, his robes set him apart—deep blue with silver embroidery forming geotric patterns that pulsed with a faint glow. His blonde hair was slicked back, and the faint smile that usually graced his lips seed sharper, more predatory than usual tonight.
Princess Isabella sat across from Cedric. At twenty-five, she was striking, with wavy black hair and blue eyes that had inherited her mother’s piercing intensity. She carried no books or notes. She simply sat with her hands in her lap, waiting—like a predator that knew its prey was about to erge.
To Marianne’s left sat Princess Valerine and Princess Adriana.
Valerine, twenty-three, was the antithesis of Isabella. Her light brown hair was tied back simply, her gown was unpretentious, and her eyes were more often fixed on the floor than on those ahead of her. But make no mistake—beneath her quiet deanor lay a tongue as sharp as a dagger. She simply chose when to draw it.
Adriana, twenty, sat beside her sister. Her dark blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes—green like her mother’s—moved rapidly, observing, calculating. She lacked Valerine’s composure but possessed a bolder voice. Tonight, she had already rehearsed several remarks should the need arise.
And at the far end of the table, distanced from the royal family, sat Archbishop Alexander.
His white robes, embroidered with gold thread, stood out against the black wood of his chair. Around his neck hung a golden sun pendant—the symbol of the Goddess of Light. His face was serene, almost statue-like. But beneath that tranquility burned a fire of fanaticism, ready to incinerate anyone deed an enemy of the faith.
King Edward let out a heavy sigh. "Eleanor, you requested this eting. Begin."
Eleanor offered a thin smile—one that failed to reach her eyes. "Thank you, Your Majesty." She straightened her posture, her gaze sweeping across the room. "I requested this council because our kingdom faces a threat. Not from without—but from within."
A heavy silence descended. Marianne clenched her fists beneath the table.
"Northreach," Eleanor continued, her voice cold and asured. "House Sudrath. They have crossed boundaries that no noble should ever breach. They are building an illegal army. They have allied themselves with dragons—the natural enemies of mankind. And worst of all..." She paused, letting her words sink in. "They are hoarding demonic technology."
Alexander nodded slowly. "The Church has monitored the developnts in Northreach for years." His voice was deep and commanding, like a sermon in a cathedral. "Holy scripture has foretold it: the man who creates machines without souls shall bring forth ruin. Those who reject magic—the gift of the Goddess of Light—and replace it with iron and steam... they are a plague. A plague that must be purged before it spreads."
"Demonic technology?" Marianne’s voice cut through, dripping with disbelief. "That is a grave accusation, Alexander. Where is your proof?"
Alexander turned toward Marianne, his eyes frigid. "Proof? All of Northreach is proof, Queen Marianne. Carriages that move without horses. Lamps that glow without fire. Weapons that fire lightning without a single incantation. Are these the blessings of the Goddess? Or are they the curses of the abyss?"
Marianne opened her mouth to retort, but Eleanor was faster. "It is not just technology. They murdered my son. Marcus."
The na dropped like a stone into a still pond. Isabella looked down, her jaw tightening. Cedric leaned back, but his eyes flared with suppressed rage.
"They slaughtered Marcus at the Alpine-Draconia Pass," Eleanor continued, her voice trembling—not with grief, but with restrained fury. "A prince of the realm. Royal blood. Butchered by Roland Sudrath without trial, without due process. And what did the kingdom do? Nothing. We remained silent, as if my son’s life was worthless."
"I agree with Mother," Isabella spoke up, her voice sharp. "The Sudraths have been tolerated for far too long. They killed Marcus, and we did nothing? They build an army, and we simply watch? For how long? Until they are knocking on the gates of the Palace of Light?"
Cedric added, his tone calr but no less biting. "And they reject magic. They created those machines to rival spells—to prove they have no need for the legacy of our ancestors. It is an insult. Not just to the royal family, but to the entire history of Aethelgard."
Valerine, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet every word was crystal clear. "Amusing. You speak of insults to history, yet you yourselves have never bothered to read it."
All eyes turned toward her. Eleanor narrowed her gaze. "What are you implying, Valerine?"
Valerine shrugged, a small, almost lazy gesture. "Marcus led four hundred cavalry to the Draconian border to intercept Roland. Roland acted in self-defense. That is a fact. A fact recorded in the official reports. But of course, it is much easier to call it a ’slaughter’ than to admit our own brother started it."
"You defend the murderer of your brother?" Isabella glared at Valerine with burning eyes.
"I defend no one." Valerine t her gaze, unfazed. "I simply despise lies dressed up as the truth. That is all."
Adriana, sitting beside Valerine, joined in. Her voice was louder, more defiant. "My sister is right. You talk of war against Northreach as if it were the only option. But where is the proof they are a genuine threat? Rumors? Scripture? Those aren’t proofs. Those are opinions."
Eleanor offered a thin, unfriendly smile. "You are young, Adriana. You do not yet understand how the world works."
"And you are too old to rember that war costs lives," Adriana shot back instantly. "The lives of the common folk. Not the lives of nobles sitting safely in their palaces."
"Adriana." Marianne’s voice intervened, soft but firm. Adriana fell silent, but her eyes remained cold as she glared at Eleanor.
King Edward raised his hand. The room fell into imdiate silence.
"Leonardo." The King turned to the Crown Prince. "You have not spoken. Your thoughts?"
Leonardo slowly closed his notebook. He looked at his father, then at Eleanor, then at Marianne. His face remained an unreadable mask.
"I hear two sides," he said finally. "One side desires war. The other desires peace. Both have their reasons." He paused. "But neither has sufficient proof."
Eleanor opened her mouth, but Leonardo raised a hand. "I am not finished, Mother."
Eleanor snapped her mouth shut, her jaw working.
"We know Northreach possesses technology we do not. That is a fact. We know they have a more modernized military. That is also a fact. But does that an they intend to attack us? There is no evidence. Did they kill Marcus in a fair fight? Official reports say yes." He looked at Eleanor. "I do not take sides. I am rely stating that a decision for war cannot be made based on emotion. It requires more than the anger of a mother."
Eleanor stared at Leonardo with unreadable eyes. "You were always so rational, Leonardo. To the point of forgetting that blood is thicker than logic."
"It is precisely because I rember blood," Leonardo replied calmly, "that I do not wish to spill it without cause."
Silence hung heavy once more. Alexander cleared his throat, breaking the tension.
"Your Majesty," he said to King Edward. "The Church does not ask for war. The Church asks for a purging. Northreach has spread heresy—the teaching that man has no need for the Goddess, that machines can replace magic. If this is allowed to continue, it is not just the kingdom that will fall. Faith itself will die."
King Edward stared at Alexander for a long ti. Then at Eleanor. Then at Marianne.
"I will consider it," he said finally. "The decision is not yet final. We shall convene again in two weeks. Until then, no one is to act on their own."
Eleanor offered a thin smile—a smile that said: You can delay, but you cannot stop.
"Of course, Your Majesty," she said. "We shall wait."
The eting concluded. One by one, they filed out of the Hexagon Hall. Marianne erged with a pale face, followed by Valerine and Adriana. In the corridor, Adriana squeezed her mother’s hand.
"We cannot stay silent," Adriana whispered.
Marianne shook her head. "Not yet. Eleanor has too many allies. We must be patient."
At the end of another corridor, Eleanor walked alongside Alexander. Their steps were soft, nearly silent.
"The King will agree," Alexander said. "He only needs ti."
Eleanor smiled. "I know. I have already prepared everything. The royal army, the church’s forces, and Alistair... they will all move. Northreach will be crushed."
Alexander nodded. "The Goddess of Light blesses our cause."
Eleanor did not answer. She continued walking, her eyes fixed ahead, toward the north—toward Northreach.
Three months, she thought. Marcus, your mother will have her vengeance.
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