Chapter Eighteen
The Pillars of Velmora
The lantern-lit marble of Velmora's guild hall gleamed faintly as dusk fell, casting elongated shadows behind Kael and Mara as they stepped inside. The front desk was quiet at this hour, manned by a thin clerk with sharp eyes and a chain of brass keys at her hip. She glanced up, quill hovering midair as she recognized them.
"You two… back from the slime essence retrieval already?" she asked, eyeing them with a cool, professional detachment. "Took longer than expected."
Kael offered a small shrug. "Ran into some trouble—mutated spawns near the outer glades. We circled wide to avoid a collapsing trail."
Mara nodded in agreement, adjusting her sleeve just enough to show a faint scratch, carefully unhealed. "We kept to the mission parameters."
The clerk's eyes lingered on Kael for a moment longer than necessary. Not in suspicion—more like subtle relief.
"I'll mark your return. Report approved," she said, reaching for the logbook.
Behind them, Arden waited quietly, tugging the hem of his newly borrowed cloak. His eyes darted across the vast hall, taking in every sigil, banner, and armored adventurer passing by.
Kael gestured him forward. "He's here to register. Wants access to the lower rings."
The clerk arched a brow. "New applicant?" Her tone sharpened slightly.
"I vouched for him," Kael added. "He has clearance."
She didn't argue. With a nod, she slid a parchment form forward. "Fill this. Rank D provisional, pending assessment. And don't get killed."
Arden smirked and proceeded to scribble his name.
Mara gave a quiet glance back toward the entrance.
Zerai, on the other hand before they entered the guild, said that he will talk to them later and will just take care of some personal matters first.
They didn't question it and just nodded.
---
Outside the guild, a cloaked figure leaned against a blackened post at the street's edge.
Vorn watched them in silence, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked to Kael, then to Arden, then finally to Mara. He clicked his tongue once—sharp and brief—before pushing off the post and disappearing down an alley between shuttered shops.
---
Velmora did not sleep, not truly.
Its pulse ran deeper than cobbled streets and market bellows. Beneath the festivals, forge hammers, and merchant caravans lay a city of careful balance—one held steady by the legacy of twelve noble houses. These were the Twelve Pillars of Velmora: ancient bloodlines, each entrusted with a dominion over a facet of the city's soul.
Among them, two stood in quiet opposition—each dignified in form, but storm-bound in principle.
---
House Draewyn. Bearer of the Raven and Moon.
From their estate, the Sanctum of Silver Winds, the Draewyn lineage had long shaped Velmora's magical laws, rites, and scholarly progression. Their estate shimmered above the southern heights, protected by veils of runes only the initiated could decipher.
Within, Lady Thalira Draewyn stood beside a basin of crystal, her dark eyes focused as the arcane waters rippled under her touch. Her steward, silent but present, waited beside a scroll array brimming with recent leyline anomalies.
"The Ebon Channel grows unstable," she said, voice soft but cutting. "Magic thickens unnaturally there."
Her steward nodded. "The Kaelthorns increase mining efforts. Their tunnels bite deeper."
Thalira's lips curled with disdain. "And the guild—silent. Neutrality is a coward's cloak." She turned, facing the names etched in the air before her. Adventurers. Alchemists. Surveyors. Every one a piece on the board.
"Summon our proxies. It's time we sealed the inner wards."
---
House Kaelthorn. Forged in war.
North of the city rose Ironvale, its granite walls lined with watchtowers and training fields. The Kaelthorn sigil, a cleaved boar pierced by a blade, rippled in the wind above the battlements.
In the lower yard, young Jareth Kaelthorn forced his opponent to yield with a ruthless spin and downward slash. Dust clung to his boots. The breath in his lungs burned with frustration.
From the stairwell above, Lord Renhold Kaelthorn watched.
"You saw that?" Jareth demanded.
"I saw," his father replied, descending with arms folded. "But striking fast is not the same as striking well."
Jareth's eyes flared. "Draewyn hides behind veils and words. They poison the Channel with politics. Let us claim it by right."
Renhold led his son inside, through stone corridors etched with battle victories. Within the war chamber, he laid a finger upon the map—a red thread circled several intersections of the city's underways.
"We will not fight in the open. We'll seize permits, restrict access, undercut funding. Even magic bleeds when starved."
A pause.
"And if the High Regent calls council?"
"Then," Renhold said darkly, "we bleed them in the open."
---
Atop the Spire of Accord, where twelve stained-glass windows cast shifting colors across a chamber of silence, High Regent Altheryon Vaelborne stood facing the sky. A golden raven circled overhead, silent as starlight.
A steward stepped forward. "My lord. Tensions rise. Shall we call the Pillars?"
Altheryon did not turn.
"No," he said simply. "Not yet. The city is still listening."
--
Elsewhere, in the southern reaches of Velmora, a boy stood alone.
Eryndor Draewyn, son of Lady Thalira, held no magic in his veins. He had failed the rites, ignored by the wards that shaped his siblings into arcane heirs.
But he did not weep. He trained.
Leather armor worn smooth by repetition, his sword lifted in the growing dusk. One parry. One thrust. Again. And again. His breath misted in the night air.
"I won't be their shadow," he muttered. "Not theirs. Not anyone's."
Above him, unseen, a wind shifted. The city breathed.
And destiny listened.
Continue to Chapter XIX...