Chapter Twenty
Two Shadows Before the Council
The torchlit hall of House Thornevale pulsed with old stone and unyielding traditions. Sunlight leaked through tall windows etched with ancient oaths, falling in fractured gold across the long table where six noble figures sat. The great house was still—the kind of silence bred only by power. And tension.
"Another caravan was raided south of Fenroth's domain," Lady Elvarin said coolly, swirling her wine without drinking it. "The bodies were...stripped, not robbed. And the merchant bore a temporary seal granted through adventurer sponsorship."
Lord Vaelcrest scoffed, heavy-jawed and silver-bearded. "This is what happens when you let sellswords run unchecked."
"It wasn't just a matter of missing cargo," muttered Lord Ardenthall. "There were signs of tampering. Burnt sigils. Faint distortions in the stone. Something... unnatural. One scout mentioned residual flux—possibly a misfired teleportation."
Thornevale, seated at the head of the table, tapped his ring against the oakwood rhythmically. "That sector borders the old trade cliffs. The ley-lines out there are unstable. If someone vanished, they might never resurface."
"A name surfaced in a few taverns," Ardenthall said after a pause. "A woman—an independent inventor, possibly an alchemist by trade. Unconfirmed. She hasn't been seen in weeks."
"She hasn't turned up," Thornevale said, his voice low. "And until she does, it's all hearsay. But even so—"
"Even so," interrupted Lady Myrrien, eyes sharp, "we should prepare a proposal for the Yearly Council. If the Regent won't rein in these fringe territories, then the houses must."
"We all know the High Regent watches, but rarely moves," Fenroth added. "He's waiting. Testing us."
Thornevale stood slowly. "Then let us not break first. We propose a clause: that unvetted adventurers may no longer be permitted to take contracts involving nobility or protected domains."
No one objected. It was not consensus, but calculation.
---
Miles away, in the marbled halls of House Virellian's estate, the atmosphere was different. Softer. Luxurious. But underneath it all, just as venomous.
Lord Droswyn laughed behind his gloved hand. "They think they can write rules into existence."
"Let them," said Lady Lysandrel, her smile too perfect. "It won't hold. Too many threads are already pulled."
"Trade in the eastern ports has flourished," Virellian said, uncorking a bottle with an expensive click. "Thanks to...external aid. Unregulated, yes. But effective."
"The Kaelthorn faction is afraid," Caldovar muttered. "Afraid of what adventurers represent. Chaos. Change."
"And the fact that they can no longer control everything," Velnar added, slouched comfortably with his boots on an heirloom table. "That's what really terrifies them."
"Will the Regent side with them this time?" Ormaren asked, his voice almost too quiet.
No one answered immediately.
Then Virellian said, very softly, "He'll side with order. Whatever order looks like in two months."
That brought a hush.
And from the corner of the room, one of the stewards lit a fresh candle with a flick of his fingers. The flame trembled just a bit too long.
---
The mid-afternoon light of Velmora was filtered gold, streaked through glass and drifting clouds. The adventurer's guild hall was alive with activity—fresh recruits filling in forms, battle-worn veterans boasting of past exploits, scribes hustling from table to table with evaluations.
Among them, a figure in a dark blue coat stepped through the double doors with fluid ease. His steps were quiet, calculated. A simple mask obscured his face, smooth and matte, betraying no rank or affiliation.
He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had watched predators long enough to mimic their grace.
Behind him walked a tall woman in muted armor, silver-streaked hair bound tightly behind her. Liora. She carried no weapon openly, but every inch of her said she didn't need to.
They reached the front desk.
"Name?" the clerk asked automatically.
"Eryndor," the masked man replied. "First-time registration."
The clerk blinked. "Surname?"
A pause.
"Not necessary."
The scribe hesitated, glancing briefly at Liora, who raised a brow. The silence between the two newcomers was unsettling.
"Very well... Rank preference?"
"D-rank."
"We can conduct the evaluation this afternoon. Most nobles go for B or C with pre-screening."
"I'm not most nobles."
The clerk raised no further question.
"What of your... guardian?"
"Liora. My teacher, guardian, and sparring overseer."
The older woman inclined her head. "For now."
---
They were led to a private booth for paperwork. Eryndor didn't say much. His eyes scanned the fine print, occasionally pausing with a flicker of irritation. Liora, as ever, remained unreadable.
"You're not hiding well," she murmured once the attendant had left.
"I'm not hiding. I'm waiting."
"Same thing."
He signed the last page.
---
Eryndor Dreawyn.
The name alone once bent rooms around it.
But not here. Not now. Not with a mask and a quiet tongue.
As he left the booth, his thoughts drifted—not to the council meeting, not to his father's expectations, but to something deeper. The murmur of the city. The heat of life at the ground level. The chaos of the board.
He watched a pair of young adventurers bickering over a slime hunt bounty, a mage flipping through missions with a scowl, a healer arguing about herbal rights.
They were loud. Undisciplined. Untethered.
He envied them.
Liora caught him staring.
"You'll have to choose a mission eventually."
"Not yet. I want to see how far they stretch. How deep this city's belly runs."
She grunted. "You sound like your father."
He didn't reply.
---
Flashback
A dimly lit chamber. House Dreawyn's ancestral seat. A voice like steel.
"You will attend the Council in my stead, Eryndor. You will speak as Dreawyn. You will vote as Dreawyn."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you are not my son."
Simple. Final.
He remembered Liora placing a hand on his shoulder afterward. Not in comfort. In warning.
---
Now, as the sunlight of Velmora pooled outside the guildhall, Eryndor turned toward the mission board.
His masked face was unreadable, but beneath it, something stirred.
"Let them play their games," he murmured.
Liora stood beside him, arms crossed.
"You planning to win one of your own?"
He turned to her with a rare, quiet smile. "No. I plan to change the board."
The chapter closed on that moment: one noble hiding in plain sight, far from the politics that birthed him, stepping slowly into the chaos he had longed for—not to conquer it, but to understand it.
To become something neither Kaelthorn nor Dreawyn could predict.
Something else.
Continue to Chapter XXI...