The silence that followed the box's appearance had barely begun to settle when the first scroll erged from within.
The Speaker withdrew a pale length of parchnt, bound in green ribbon, sealed with silver wax, and marked with a sigil of curling roots entwined with a blooming crown of leaves. The mont it touched the tribunal table, sothing shifted.
Not in the air. In the people.
A collective stillness swept through the council, like the intake of a single, shared breath.
Matthian didn't recognize the seal. Neither did most of the others. And that was what made it dangerous. There was sothing familiar about the box it had co in—a distant mory that stirred just beneath the surface, threatening to rise but refusing to take shape.
Matthian was certain he had seen sothing similar before, at so point in his life. But for now, he could only curse his failing mory for not recalling where.
"What is that mark?"
"Elven… I think?"
"No. It's… too old."
The Speaker hesitated, visibly uneasy, before breaking the seal. The parchnt unfurled with a whisper like falling leaves, its surface delicate and translucent. The ink shimred faintly in the candlelight, drifting as if alive, flowing within the fibers of the page itself.
His voice, when it ca, was softer than before.
"High Council of Yggdrasil," he read. "Signatory: House Goldleaf of the First Root."
A silence deeper than awe settled over the chamber.
The room didn't erupt into murmurs this ti. It sank into them, an undercurrent of disbelief and quiet wonder.
Matthian felt the words hit like a hamr to the ribs. House Goldleaf. A na etched into history. One of the founding lineages of the elven race, older than the city of Tradespire itself.
All at once, he rembered why the box had felt so familiar. That majestic aura, unmatched by any other wood in the world. It was made of Yggdrasil wood—the wood of the World Tree.
A treasure no money could buy.
This wasn't just a contract. It was a statent.
Elves did trade, yes, but never like this. Not through bound contracts, not through official, formalized terms. Their deals were whispers, favors, and fleeting arrangents written on wind and repaid at their whims. The idea of a binding agreent between their kind and a human enterprise was almost blasphemous.
And yet, here it was.
A fully ratified trade accord with House Goldleaf. Clear terms. Clear rights. A ten-year exclusivity clause on the export of all goods bearing the erald crest. Pricing tiers that turned even Matthian's head.
He scanned the margins.
Rare timber. Dreamweave silk. Sunroot spice. Even raw Heartwood. All routed through one na:
Ezekiel of Tradespire.
And suddenly, Matthian understood.
This wasn't just a stroke of luck. This was the answer to everything.
This contract alone was a gold minting machine. It explained the boy's confidence, his unshakable calm in the face of dwarven debts that would bankrupt entire houses. He had never needed to fear debt. He held the deed to the vault.
Rejecting this boy wouldn't be a blow to him, but to the council, to the very idea of free trade this city claid to represent. The boy didn't need the seat. It was the council who stood to gain from the association.
Matthian frowned. It was truly a sha that the boy would be denied in the end, even after all of that. The rules were the rules, and the council would not bend, no matter how much they stood to gain.
"It can't be genuine," Orwin muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
Lord Fies stood again. Predictable. Like a man trying to slice through stone with a kitchen knife.
"Very impressive," he said dryly. "But perhaps too much so. First the dwarves, then the slaves of Undercity, a Progenitor Beast… and now the elves. One might begin to wonder whether our young petitioner intends to represent Tradespire or a foreign coalition of races."
He gave a slight bow, mocking.
"A charming list of patrons, for sure, but maybe too much at odds with our own intrestes?"
There were no laughs. Only silence.
Even those aligned with the Empire had stopped pretending this was re bluster.
The Speaker cleared his throat.
"Does any lord present submit a formal objection to the legitimacy of this contract?"
No one spoke. No one dared.
Even Lord Fies' lips were pressed tightly shut. The Elven Matriarchy was not an entity to be disrespected lightly. Their grudges lasted centuries, and their pettiness was legendary. Speaking against them here would be as good as forfeiting one's position as a rchant lord.
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"No objection recorded. The contract is accepted."
The gavel struck once, echoing like thunder across marble.
And with that sound, the final piece clicked into place.
And the boy, still unmoving, hadn't flinched once.
Three proofs of trade, presented and confird.
The Speaker rose, his tone echoing with finality. "All required contracts have been presented and confird. The council shall now receive the second proof: proof of power."
There was a pause.
Then movent.
Not from the gallery or the boy, but from behind him.
The cloaked figure that had stood silently at Ezekiel's side throughout the entire hearing lifted its head. In one fluid motion, the shadows clinging to its form unraveled, lting away like mist at sunrise.
Not fabric, not disguise: darkness given form.
Shadow Magic, woven so finely it had veiled even the senses of seasoned Mages.
When the veil dispersed, a man stood in its place.
Black hair streaked with silver. Immaculate gloves. A tailored coat of midnight black. A calm presence, elegant and utterly composed.
Matthian's eyes narrowed. He knew that man.
David.
One of Ezekiel's more capable followers. A Grandmage by title and ranking, but never considered near the threshold. If anything, his evaluation had always been... unremarkable.
But now? What was this?
His presence could only an one thing. He had advanced. But that was impossible, wasn't it?
For a Mage to ascend to Archmage before their first century was a mark of greatness—sothing even the scions of the great houses struggled to achieve.
And yet, here he stood, as if his appearance were nothing out of the ordinary.
The man didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"I am David," he said simply, bowing with courtly grace. "By the will of my lord, I return to Tradespire to resu my duties as Head Butler of the House."
Then he flared his aura.
Not violent.
Not flashy.
A cold, unending shadow. A void that swept through the hall like the passing of nightfall, brushing every corner with an eerie stillness. It didn't crush. It didn't threaten. It simply was.
It was a display that left many a Lord in awe.
Even Matthian's breath caught.
The man's precise control made it impossible to gauge his true strength, as was the prerogative of Shadow Mages, but the pressure in the room spoke for itself. Power, vast and restrained.
If Matthian didn't know better, he would have assud the man had advanced years ago, making this power his own completely. But that was impossible. What had he experienced that allowed him to transform so completely?
Then Lord Fies stood again, ever the opportunist. "A man of your caliber, Grandmage—pardon, Archmage David—ought to consider his loyalties more carefully. I would pay triple what the boy offers. Other benefits too, if you prefer."
David didn't so much as glance in his direction. But for a brief instant, a look of utter disdain flashed in his eyes, as if he had just stepped in filth. It was jarring, a stark contrast to the refined deanor he had maintained. The mont passed as quickly as it ca.
"My loyalty," he said, voice still soft, "cannot be bought. Only earned."
And with that, he returned to stand behind Ezekiel once more, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The Speaker didn't even need to ask.
"Proof of power accepted."
And now, only one hurdle remained.
The final proof.
Legitimacy.
This was where it would break. Where they all expected it to end. The boy had wielded miracles like a blade, cutting through expectations with every step, but this requirent was different.
Proof of legitimacy.
Recognition by royalty.
The Speaker turned to him.
"And your final proof?"
Ezekiel did not respond. ContentsourcedfromMV4LEMPYR–MyVirtualLibraryEmpire.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply lifted his gaze.
Upward.
To the high seat above the council. The one adorned with gold filigree and velvet black, veiled by a sheer tapestry behind which sat the ruler of Tradespire.
King Midas.
He hadn't spoken once since the hearing began. Not when the dwarves were nad. Not when Winter's aura froze the room. Not when the elven contracts were revealed. Not even now.
He sat motionless, fingers steepled beneath his chin, face obscured by the thin fabric that separated him from the rest of the world.
Watching.
Waiting.
Matthian's breath caught in his throat. His mind finally made the connection that had eluded him all along.
This was the reason, wasn't it?
The reason the famously elusive King of Tradespire had made an appearance. It was to give Ezekiel his royal endorsent, to ensure that this genius of the age was not lost to a foreign power.
Matthian felt a surge of genuine awe at the King's foresight.
Not only had the man recognized Ezekiel's brilliance, he had prepared to support him at this final, pivotal mont. A masterstroke that would bind this rising force even more tightly to Tradespire's interests.
King Midas truly deserved his fa. A mind of that caliber was rare beyond asure.
With renewed anticipation, Matthian turned his full attention to the hearing, eager to witness the mont unfold. His only regret was not heeding his colleagues' pleas, not supporting the boy from the start with everything he had.
And still, Ezekiel said nothing. He simply waited.
As if he weren't the one seeking approval. As if he were the one delivering judgnt.
As the silence stretched on, Matthian began to sense that sothing was wrong. Midas did not intervene to save the boy as expected, and Ezekiel made no move to request the endorsent.
This felt different.
Almost like a standoff. A drawing of lines in the sand. There was a sharp, unspoken tension in the air.
It was so thick that not even Lord Fies or the Speaker dared to speak.
The stillness couldn't last forever.
"…Disappointing," Ezekiel said at last, lowering his gaze. He didn't sound truly disappointed—more like soone who had simply confird what they already suspected.
The entire hall exhaled at once, so with disappointnt, others with relief. Clearly, Matthian hadn't been the only one to connect the King's presence with the expected endorsent.
Everyone had been ready to welco a new mber to the council just now, but it seed that it wasn't ant to be. For so reason, Midas had chosen not to act, leaving the boy stranded without a path forward.
It was over for him. That fleeting mont of hope had passed, and the hearing was set to end as everyone had predicted. No more surprises. No more miraculous upheavals that left everyone—
"My final proof," the boy said, his voice low but unmistakably clear, "is right here."
He raised a single hand.
In it was a parchnt, creased, yellowed, and frayed at the edges. The wax seal had long since broken, and the ink had bled in places, leaving the script nearly illegible. It looked less like a legal docunt and more like sothing pulled from the depths of a ruined crypt. Even from a distance, Matthian could swear he caught the faint scent of rot curling from its surface.
A breathless hush fell over the chamber.
"…What is this farce?" Lord Fies spat, rising once more. "So moldy scrap passed off as legitimacy? Have we not indulged this child enough?"
This ti, he wasn't alone.
Murmurs of agreent rippled through the council. Laughter echoed from the Empire's corner. A few lords grumbled about decorum, others called to end the hearing altogether.
Even Matthian felt a knot of doubt twist in his chest. The boy had played his hand masterfully—until now. Was this truly how he intended to end it? With theatrics? With a final act so absurd it undermined everything he had built?
It felt beneath him.
It felt beneath all of this.
Yet Matthian's eyes widened as they settled on the throne at the far end of the hall.
King Midas.
The founder of Tradespire. The golden sovereign who had observed the proceedings in impassive silence. Unmoved by dwarves, unshaken by elves, unbothered by Progenitors.
Now, he was rising to his feet.
No words. No signal to his retainers.
Just the king.
Standing.
Matthian's blood ran cold.
Because even through the curtain, he could read the body language as clearly as text on a page. Tense shoulders. A slight tremble. Gaze locked.
It was recognition.
…And fear.
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