The summit chamber within the fortress of Elarion was built to inspire awe and submission. The walls were carved from obsidian imported from the Ashfang Wastes, veined with gold that shimmered like fire under the flickering torchlight. A massive circular table dominated the space, etched with a topographical map of the Five Kingdoms—an ironic centerpiece for a meeting meant to prevent their total destruction.
Auren Valen stood at the head of the table like a conductor before an orchestra of barely-leashed wolves. His black robes, trimmed with crimson thread, moved soundlessly as he adjusted the scroll before him. Every noble and warlord present could feel the weight of his presence, but no one was foolish enough to acknowledge it out loud.
To his right stood Seraphina Duskfire, radiant and grim in her battle leathers, her flame-colored hair braided back tightly. She wore no crown, though the blood of kings still burned in her veins. Her eyes—citrine and calculating—surveyed the council like a warrior assessing weak points in an enemy line.
Seated at the table were representatives from all corners of the realm: Lord Veyric of the Ice-Bound Isles, dressed in furs that steamed faintly in the southern heat; Lady Calia of Thornvale, draped in glistening silk and contempt; General Rourke of Blackfang, a towering man whose armor bore still-drying blood; and Lord Ilareth of Duskwatch, as pale and unreadable as a wax figure.
The air reeked of tension. Magic simmered just beneath the surface—some subtle, some barely restrained.
Auren allowed the silence to stretch. It was a trick he'd perfected in a former life, when kings had begged for his counsel and queens had offered more than gold to earn his loyalty. Silence made powerful men nervous. And when they were nervous, they revealed everything.
"We're wasting time," Lady Calia snapped, her jeweled fingers tightening around her goblet. "The dead march from the East. The Blackened Crown has already taken three border villages, and still we sit here quibbling over allegiances."
Auren arched an eyebrow. "Quibbling? I hadn't realized the Thornvale line had given up its taste for power."
That earned him a sharp glare.
General Rourke leaned forward, steel-plated elbows creaking against the table. "You speak like a man who already has a plan, Valen. Maybe you'd care to share it before we lose another thousand men to the Bone Fields."
"My plan," Auren said coolly, "requires loyalty, not permission. Cooperation, not cowardice."
"Spoken like someone who forgets what happened in Merrow," Lady Calia hissed. "You guided a crown into ruin once before. We've not forgotten the ash you left behind."
Seraphina shifted, but Auren raised a hand. His lips curled into something faintly resembling amusement.
"Good," he said. "Ash is the perfect soil for new growth. What I built before died because it lacked the one thing we now have: desperation."
Lord Ilareth finally spoke, his voice a low murmur. "You mean leverage."
Auren nodded. "Precisely."
He turned, pointing to the center of the map—an arid stretch of land flanked by ravines and broken passes.
"This is the Chasm Line," Auren said. "Whoever controls it controls the only route into the eastern front before the cliffs fall into the Deadlands. If we hold it, we force the Blackened Crown into a bottleneck. But to do that, we need armies, resources—and most of all—trust."
That last word hung heavy in the room.
"Trust," General Rourke echoed with a bitter laugh. "In each other? Or in you?"
"Either will do," Auren replied without blinking.
A servant moved between the nobles, offering goblets of dark wine. Seraphina's eyes tracked her with the sharpness of a predator. The girl's step was too soft, her hands too steady. There was no fear. Only purpose.
As she approached Lord Ilareth, Seraphina caught the way he subtly leaned away from the tray.
"Don't drink it," she said suddenly.
The girl froze. Everyone turned.
Seraphina's dagger was in her hand in a blink.
The servant lunged—not at Ilareth, but at Auren.
The dagger came fast, flashing silver, aimed for the strategist's throat.
Seraphina intercepted mid-air, her armored forearm taking the blow. A sickening crunch followed as she twisted the girl's wrist, disarming her and throwing her to the floor in a single motion.
Blood dripped from her arm, but she stood over the assassin like a goddess of war.
"Poisoned dagger," she growled. "And there's more in the wine. She's no servant."
Guards rushed forward, but Auren held up a hand. "Wait."
He knelt beside the girl, brushing back her hood. She was young—no more than seventeen—with a scar across her collarbone in the shape of a blackened flame.
"The Mark of the Crown," Auren said, his voice soft. "She's one of their Shadows."
"An assassin cult?" Ilareth asked, gaze narrowing.
"A message," Seraphina said grimly. "They know we're here. They know we're uniting."
Auren rose slowly. His expression was calm, but his eyes had gone dark.
"They fear us," he said. "That's why they're already trying to cut off the head."
Lady Calia stood, shaking. "This summit is compromised. I'm returning to Thornvale."
"Sit down," Auren ordered.
His voice held no room for argument.
Everyone froze.
"Leave, and your house becomes the first to burn when the Blackened Crown reaches our gates," he continued. "There is no neutrality anymore. You are either allied with me… or already defeated."
Rourke stood slowly. "And what do you call this alliance, Valen? What flag do we bleed for?"
Auren turned to Seraphina. Their eyes met. For a moment, they weren't strategist and warrior—they were something older. A forge and a flame.
He drew a sigil into the wine pooled across the map—a symbol of a phoenix rising from a crown of shattered blades.
"Call it what you like," Auren said. "But know this—we do not stand together for power. We stand because alone, we are doomed."
One by one, the nobles sat back down.
The alliance was sealed not with words, but with blood, betrayal, and survival.
But as the guards dragged the unconscious assassin away, Seraphina noticed something else—a folded piece of parchment sewn into the girl's inner sleeve. She tore it free and unrolled it with trembling fingers.
Her blood turned to ice.
Scrawled in a familiar hand—her father's hand—was a message that read:
"The dead remember. Do not trust him."
She looked up at Auren.
And for the first time, doubt flickered behind her eyes.