The day was beautiful, almost cruelly so.
The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the rolling hills and lush fields . A warm breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and spring blossoms, a reminder of how peaceful the land remained—for now. But beneath the splendor of the afternoon lay a mont that could unravel everything. Today, in the privacy of a secluded encampnt, five lords would decide whether to cast the die and risk plunging the realm into a civil war that could shake its very foundation.
Lord Niketas,Lord Gregor, Lord Lysandros, Lord Eurenis, and Lord Corvan gathered once more, their eting eerily similar to the one they had held months before. The sa heavy canvas tent shielded them from the sun, the sa long wooden table stood between them, and the sa quiet tension settled over their shoulders like an unseen weight. But there were two key differences.
The first was the subject of their discussion. No longer were they rely strategizing ways to safeguard their position against the growing power of the Crown. Now, they faced the far graver decision of whether to commit to outright rebellion—whether to risk ruin or grasp for dominion.
The second difference was the man seated among them who had not been there before.
Elyos, the priest to whom they had once granted land, sat in their midst, his presence clearly showing just how much things had changed. He was no longer just a wandering preacher with a band of devoted followers; he was a man who had, through sheer fervor and cunning, made himself indispensable to the coming conflict.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. The mont had co. The final decision awaited.
The die was in their hands. It was ti to cast it—or let it drop.
However what was in the noble’s heart was not tension or indeciveness as much as there was anger.
Lord Niketas’ gaze was sharp enough to cut stone as he stared at Elyos, his fingers tightening around the crumpled letter in his grip. He did not speak imdiately, but his silence was no reprieve—it was the kind that heralded an inevitable storm. His eyes burned with the fury of a man who had just realized he had placed a loaded crossbow into the hands of a fool.
When he did finally speak, his voice was dangerously low, each word slicing through the air like a drawn blade. "How dare you?" he hissed, though his tone carried less of a question and more of a demand.
He slamd the letter onto the table, his palm pressing down onto it as though trying to smother the insult it carried. "How dare you write to us with such... scandalous idiocy?"
The other lords shifted in their seats, their faces drawn, their hands twitching as though resisting the urge to snatch the letter and burn it on the spot. None of them needed to see its contents—they already knew what kind of disaster Elyos had invited into their midst.
A noble—any noble with the barest shred of sense—would have never put to paper sothing so brazen, sothing that, if found by the wrong hands, might as well have been titled Proof of Treason... A noble would have known that words could be daggers, and that letters were just waiting to be intercepted. A noble would have written sothing vague, sothing benign—an invitation to discuss lands, tithes, or a hunting excursion. Anything but this.
But Elyos was no noble. That much was clear.
He was a cockless man, that spoke of good and sheep
The letter that now lay between them was nothing short of a death warrant, inked by the priest’s own hand. A fool would have to squint to miss the aning behind his words, and the Crown, for all its faults, was not run by fools.
Niketas leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he pressed against the table. His voice, though controlled, seethed with a fury barely restrained. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? If this—" he jabbed a finger at the damning parchnt, "—were to find its way into the hands of the Crown, it would be over. Over for all of us." His voice dropped lower, venomous, "And only the gods would know how much I’d regret not gutting you first."
The tent was silent, save for the rustling of the fabric in the warm breeze outside. No one dared to breathe too loudly, their eyes flickering between Niketas and Elyos, waiting to see how the priest would answer for his mistake.
Gregor scoffed seemingly not bothering on mantainin the silence, his face twisting into a sneer as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. His voice, rough and simring with barely contained frustration, filled the tent.
"We gave you land, priest," he growled, his sharp gaze locking onto Elyos. "Not because we believed in your damn sermons, as you have eloquently made use of for this piece of crap, not because we wanted to kneel at your altar, but because we needed n. n who would fight when the ti ca. That was the deal."
He jabbed a finger toward Elyos, his tone darkening.
"What we did not give you was a voice in this matter. You have no right, no power, to so much as think you get a say in whether we light the match or snuff the fla."
Elyos, in contrast, remained calm. His expression was unreadable, his hands folded neatly before him. When he spoke, it was with a asured ease, as though the weight of the accusations ant little to him. "I rely acted upon what we had already entertained in our past discussions," he said smoothly. "In my previous letter—"
"You an the one that wouldn’t damn us all if it fell into the wrong hands?" Lord Lysandros cut in sharply, his cold gaze snapping toward the priest. His voice carried none of Gregor’s fiery temper, but the steel in his tone was just as lethal. "Things were different then. We thought the high priest would condemn that fucking commoner , that he would declare him unfit to rule with his sould going to whatever fucking hell the gods deed good to send him to.
That would have given us our justification—a war waged in the na of righteousness, with the temples behind us,and with the Rolians unable to aid him unless they would like to share his downfall."
Lysandros leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "But that did not happen. The high priest refused to cast judgnt upon the prince, refused to denounce him, and in doing so, stripped us of the strongest shield we had. Without the backing of the temples, the scales no longer tip overwhelmingly in our favor."
Elyos t their scorn with an unwavering gaze, his voice carrying the quiet confidence of a man who had already asured the room and found it wanting. "You believe our position to be weak," he said, his words slow, deliberate. "That the lapse in judgnt of the High Priest, which we did not expect from the highest authority in this earthly realm, has left us stranded.
But I tell you now, that is not the case. Even though the High Priest himself faltered, many within the temples have not. They still clamor for justice. They have written to , privately, pledging their support. So, Lord Lysandros, I must correct you—the temples are still with us and with it is their silver, which I believe is the only thing you wish from them."
Lord Eurenis scoffed, his chair creaking as he leaned forward, cutting in before Elyos could continue. "Not all of them," he interjected sharply, his brow furrowed with deep skepticism. "I find it hard to believe that every temple would risk the ire of the Crown without the right of arms given by official condemnation. Without that, they are nothing more than frightened clerics whispering in shadows, too timid to act when the ti cos."
Elyos tilted his head, his expression unbothered. "Enough of them," he replied simply.
Niketas exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping against the table as he finally spoke, his tone edged with both frustration and pragmatism. "Even if that were true, even if the temples’ coin would be a useful addition to our war chest, we will not risk a total confrontation with the Crown unless the odds are overwhelmingly in our favor. Faith alone does not win wars, priest."
Elyos’s lips curled slightly, not in amusent, but in the satisfaction of a man who had yet to play his strongest card. "I was not finished," he said, his voice carrying a new weight. "After all, the support for our cause does not co only from the priests.
We have other allies.
Stronger ones. The Crown has no shortage of enemies, and two of them—two whom the prince himself has scorned—have pledged themselves to this cause as well."
The air in the tent grew heavier, charged with sothing deeper than tension—anticipation, unease, the slow realization that perhapse they were not as subtle as they thought they were
"I know very well of all of your dealings with the Princes of Herculia and Oizen," Elyos continued, his voice laced with quiet triumph.
A ripple of reaction swept across the lords. Lord Lysandros stiffened in his seat, his usually composed features betraying a flicker of unease. Lord Corvan’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest of his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. Gregor’s ever-present scowl deepened, his hands tightening into fists on the table. Even Niketas, who had up until now t Elyos’s claims with asured skepticism, shifted subtly in his seat, his sharp gaze betraying just a hint of surprise.
For a long mont, no one spoke.
Then Elyos smiled. A slow, knowing smile that barely touched his lips but burned in his eyes as he took in the lords’ reactions, their uncertainty, their hesitation. "I see it in your faces," he said smoothly. "You’re wondering how I know of this.’’
He let the silence hang, savoring the mont before delivering his next words like a blade pressed against the throat.
"Well I can just say, that they did not only approach you."
Elyos straightened his posture, his chest lifting, his presence suddenly feeling larger in the tent. "Their envoys found in a good host," he continued, his voice carrying the tone one would have when pointing out the wrongs on a child. "They found a man who understands what is at stake, who understands that this is no longer just about your grievances with the Crown. This is no longer about whether you choose to fight or not."
His piercing gaze swept across the lords, his voice deepening with finality.
"The choice has already been made, when you invited in your midst. We share the sa fate now. We stand together, bound by the sa truth—glory in victory, or ruin in defeat."
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