27.- The first trumped

The sun shone radiantly over Aethoria, the capital of Eldoria, casting an eternal golden glow over the cobblestone streets. The air buzzed with life, a living symphony: merchants hawked their wares from stalls brimming with vibrant silks and exotic fruits—"Spices from the East, fresh from the desert, a taste you'll never forget!"—their voices echoing among the colorful awnings; children darted through the shadows, their shrill laughter slicing through the hum—"You can't catch me, come on, run faster!"—dodging legs and carts with careless agility. Carriages drawn by griffins with golden feathers and sharp claws rattled down the avenues, their folded wings brushing the dust as nobles waved from the windows with haughty gestures. The scent of freshly baked bread rose from the bakeries, mingling with the sweet incense wafting from open temples and the earthy musk of beasts of burden—winged oxen and twin-humped camels—grunting under the weight of goods. Adventurers of every race filled the streets—silver-skinned elves with bows carved from starwood, dwarves with gleaming obsidian hammers, humans with exotic swords that shimmered with runes—their armor flashing like captured shards of sunlight, a constant reminder of Eldoria's grandeur and indomitable spirit.

At the city's heart, the castle of Eldoria stood as a white titan, its towers carved from pure marble piercing the azure sky, their battlements crowned with banners fluttering in the breeze—a golden lion roaring on a crimson field. The stained-glass windows cast rainbows dancing across the plazas, and the bells of the lesser towers rang softly, marking noon with a clear chime that echoed to the humblest districts. It was a day like any other, brimming with life and promise, a reflection of the prosperity the kingdom had forged under Alaric's reign.

Inside the throne room, the king presided over a meeting with his dukes, his imposing figure dominating the space like a colossus hewn from stone and fire. Tall and broad, his firm jaw and piercing eyes cut through the air with an authority that silenced even the boldest. His mithril armor, forged by the kingdom's finest smiths and etched with faintly glowing runes, was an extension of his will, each plate resonating with the echo of victories past. His dark hair, streaked with gray, fell over his shoulders in thick strands, and his aura—a dense heat like a forge at full blaze—filled the room with a presence that defied doubt. The dukes, seated in chairs carved from black oak, regarded him with respect, their hands resting on wine goblets or documents filled with figures and maps.

"This year's harvest exceeds all expectations," said Duke Darius, his red beard swaying as he gestured with broad hands, a ruby ring glinting on his finger. "The granaries are bursting, and ships from the south bring gold and spices like never before."

"Good news, Darius," replied Alaric, a faint smile softening his stern features, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "A thriving Eldoria is a strong Eldoria. That our lands flourish is my greatest pride."

"Indeed, Your Majesty," added Duchess Seraphina, an elegant elderly woman draped in a blue silk robe, her serene voice cutting through the air like a breeze. "The artisan guilds are producing more than ever—fabrics, weapons, jewels—and the royal coffers grow at a pace unseen in generations."

"Yet," interjected Duke Gareth, his severe face tightening, scars from old battles marking his skin like lines on a map, "the orcs of the north do not rest. Their raids grow bolder—villages burned, caravans plundered. If we don't stop them, we'll have war at our gates before winter."

"You're right, Gareth," said Alaric, his voice resonating with a dangerous calm that filled the hall. "I've sent three legions north and fortified the walls. If the orcs seek blood, they'll find it—theirs, spilled across the snow."

"An emissary might spare lives, Your Majesty," suggested Duke Brener, his wise eyes shining under white brows, his trembling hand gripping an ebony cane. "A treaty is still possible, even with those beasts."

"I'll consider it, Brener," replied Alaric, tilting his head slightly, "but we won't show weakness. Eldoria doesn't bargain from vulnerability—the orcs must fear our steel."

A sudden tremor cut through his words, a shudder that rattled the crystal goblets on the oak table and swayed the tapestries embroidered with scenes of past triumphs—a griffin felling a dragon, a king raising a spear. The dukes exchanged alarmed glances, their hands freezing midair, but Alaric rose, his golden aura flowing like a river of liquid fire. The runes on his armor flared brighter, and a wave of light steadied the hall's foundations, silencing the creaking stones. "What was that?" asked Darius, his voice taut as he gripped his chair's arms, wine spilling onto his tunic.

Before Alaric could answer, a second tremor struck, fiercer, a dull roar that shook the castle as if a colossal hammer had fallen from the heavens. Stones broke free from the ceiling with a sharp crash, smashing against the marble floor and raising clouds of dust. The stained-glass windows shattered in high-pitched wails, their colors—blues, reds, golds—scattering in shards that sliced through the air like bright daggers. The dukes leapt up, hands trembling on their sword hilts, as Alaric raised a hand, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade: "Calm!" A surge of golden energy erupted from him, sealing cracks in the walls and enveloping the city in a protective shroud that reached the plazas and docks. Citizens, running in panic amid toppled carts and maddened griffins, felt his power like a shield, their cries fading into a forced stillness.

But the peace shattered with a sound—a low, deep note, like a trumpet blaring from the edge of the cosmos. It wasn't a beast's roar or an earthly thunder, but a lament that thrummed in the bones, a harbinger that froze the blood and stilled hearts. The floor rippled beneath the castle, the white towers groaned in torment, and the air filled with a piercing hum that stabbed the ears like needles. Iron chandeliers swayed, their candles snuffed out in a cold gust, and shadows on the walls danced as if alive. Alaric rushed to the window, his armor clanking with each step, the mithril glinting in the fading light, and what he saw stopped him cold, his breath trapped in his chest.

The blue sky had torn apart, a blood-red stain spilling like gore from an open wound, spreading like ink across a ruined canvas. Black fissures split the firmament—jagged portals spewing writhing shadows and an icy wind that extinguished the sun in a blink. Stars burst in frantic flashes, some winking out in deathly silence, swallowed by a darkness that seemed alive, pulsing. The earth cracked into deep chasms that snaked through the city, devouring homes and squares—a blacksmith fell with his anvil into the abyss, a griffin-drawn cart plunged with a shriek. The mountains on the horizon collapsed into black dust, a veil darkening the sky, while griffins in the streets howled, their wings thrashing in blind frenzy, some crashing into buildings in their flight.

Alaric drew his mithril sword in a fluid motion, its golden runes blazing with a blinding glow that lit the hall like a second dawn. "We will not yield!" he roared, and drove the blade into the marble floor with a force that shook the room. A wave of golden light exploded from him, slicing through the air like a scythe and sealing the nearest fissures in a burst that echoed like thunder. The castle steadied, the tremors retreating under his will, and the towers ceased their groaning, held by his power. The dukes looked to him with hope, their pale faces bathed in his glow, and citizens in the streets raised their eyes to the king as to a god of protection.

But the second trumpet sounded—a high, piercing cry that stabbed the soul like an icy dagger. The red sky fractured further, the fissures widening into black veins that revealed an infinite void—blood-red nebulae swirling in torrents, blinking eyes staring from nothingness. The icy wind grew fierce, tearing rooftops away and hurling bodies into the air—a child screamed as he was swept up, his mother tumbling after him into a chasm. The tower bells rang unbidden, a broken wail blending with the hum, and then the laughter came—"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"—a cruel, cold sound that sliced through the trumpet's echo, reverberating from the fissures like a death knell. It wasn't just noise; it was a presence, a weight crushing the spirit, freezing the blood and sowing despair in every heart. Alaric felt his soul quiver, his golden aura flickering as the laughter wormed into his mind like venom, whispering his own insignificance before a power he couldn't grasp.

"For Eldoria!" he bellowed, raising his sword to the sky. The runes blazed with a light that rivaled the blood-red expanse, and a golden beam slashed upward, striking the fissures with a blast that lit Aethoria like a reborn sun. Nearby cracks sealed in bursts of light, black shards falling like burning ash, and the tremors stilled beneath his will. The dukes watched, their faces aglow, and Seraphina whispered, "The king will save us." But the laughter swelled, an echo mocking his effort, and Alaric felt a stab in his chest, blood dripping from his nose as his aura wavered under the strain.

The third trumpet blared—a low roar that bled the ears and cracked the marble beneath their feet. The fissures held, growing like black roots, and a wave of dark energy erupted from the sky, a vortex of shadows that crashed against Alaric's beam in a titanic explosion. The golden light shattered into fragments that fell as blazing meteors, smashing into the city—a temple collapsed in flames, an entire market sank into a crater. The castle tilted, a chasm opening beneath its foundations, and Alaric dropped to his knees, his armor splitting with a sharp snap. Blood streamed from his eyes, his breath ragged, but he clung to his sword, his aura flaring in a desperate fight.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"—the laughter rang louder, an echo vibrating in every stone, every soul. Darius, clutching the table, stammered, "What… what is this?" His voice broke, his face white as death, while Gareth drew his sword with trembling hands, staring at the sky with wild eyes.

"I don't know," Alaric growled, forcing himself to stand, his bones creaking under the strain, his aura flickering like a candle in the wind. "But we won't bow."

The fourth trumpet sounded—a discordant wail, a chorus of thousands screaming in forgotten tongues. The sky split entirely, the fissures merging into a colossal portal that revealed an infinite abyss—a sea of darkness with blood-red nebulae swirling in torrents, blinking eyes gazing from the void. The icy wind turned hurricane, ripping lesser towers from the castle and flinging bodies skyward—a griffin was torn apart midair, its golden feathers falling like ash. The mountains collapsed into black dust that blotted the horizon, and the river crossing Aethoria turned a viscous black, bubbling as if something alive rose from its depths.

Alaric raised his sword one last time, the runes blazing with a glow that seemed to consume his very life. "For my kingdom!" he roared, and a vortex of golden light spiraled from the blade, enveloping the castle in a desperate shield. The vortex clashed with the dark hurricane, lighting the sky in a duel of light and shadow that shook the earth. Citizens looked up to the castle, their screams silenced by the spectacle—a golden beacon against a black abyss. But the echo of the laughter sliced through the vortex like a blade, shattering it into fragments that fell as burning rain, igniting streets and squares. Alaric fell again, his sword stabbing into the ground, blood dripping from his mouth as his aura faded, his body at its breaking point.

Then, a final fissure opened above the hall—a jagged portal revealing an endless void, a sea of darkness with bleeding nebulae. From within emerged a figure: a knight in black armor, faceless, its shadow-wrought spear pulsing with dark energy that seemed to devour light. It floated before the window, its presence chilling the air, and its voice echoed in every mind like a knife through the soul: "The Queen has awakened her first echo."

With a fluid motion, it hurled the spear skyward, and a dark explosion erupted, a whirl of shadows that tore Alaric's vortex apart in a blast that rocked the castle to its core. The knight turned its empty head toward Alaric, a frozen silence descending over the hall, then vanished into the fissure, which sealed with a final crack like muted thunder. The red sky lingered, the trumpets silenced, but the echo of its laughter—and its warning—remained etched in the air, a harbinger resonating in every crack, every heart.

The dukes, paralyzed, stared at Alaric, who breathed heavily, his sword quivering in his bloodied hand. Dust settled amid the hall's wreckage, extinguished candles smoking on the floor, the silence heavier than the chaos before it. "Elmont," Alaric ordered, his voice hoarse but sharp as steel, "bring Archmage Elian and the Council of Sages. Now."

Elmont nodded, his hands shaking as he dashed through guards slumped on the floor, their faces twisted in nameless terror. The dukes glanced at each other, sweat streaming down their brows, their swords still drawn but useless in their grips. Gareth whispered, "What… what was that, Your Majesty?" His voice was barely audible, a broken echo.

"I don't know," Alaric replied, rising with an effort that cracked his armor, his aura flaring one last time like a dying spark. "But this isn't a mortal threat. This is… more."

After minutes that stretched like centuries, Elmont returned, his robe torn by debris, followed by the mages of the Ivory Tower. Their silver-and-gold robes were stained with dust and blood, their pale faces mirroring the chaos they'd witnessed in the streets. Archmage Elian stepped forward, his white beard trembling, his arcane aura quivering with a fragile arrogance beneath the weight of the unknown. He bowed, but his eyes—once bright with wisdom—were dull, clouded by a fear he couldn't mask. "Your Majesty," he said, his deep voice strained, forcing a calm he didn't feel, "what summons us in this dark hour?"

Alaric pointed to the red sky, the sealed fissures still visible as black scars. "Trumpets sounded from the void, the sky bled, the earth broke, and a knight spoke of a Queen—a 'first echo.' Magic fails, and our world trembles. We need answers."

Elian lifted his chin, his confidence wavering but clinging to pride. "The arts of the Ivory Tower will unravel this mystery, Your Majesty. No power escapes our grasp." The mages spread a star map woven with threads of light across the shattered table, placing a prismatic crystal at its center, its iridescent glow flickering like a broken rainbow. They murmured incantations in ancient tongues, their voices trembling as the map quivered and the crystal spun with arcane energy.

But the magic betrayed their faith. The map revealed chaos beyond measure—stars exploding in red flashes, constellations twisting like serpents, a black void growing like a ravenous maw. The crystal spun faster, emitting blinding flares that seared the eyes, and a shrill hum filled the hall, piercing eardrums like needles. The mages staggered back, their robes billowing in an unseen wind, and Elian raised a hand, his arcane aura flaring in a desperate bid to contain it. But with a deafening blast, the crystal shattered, shards flying like daggers—one grazed Darius's cheek, leaving a thread of blood; another embedded in the wall, smoking. Elian dropped to his knees, his aura collapsing, his eyes wide with pure terror that erased all arrogance.

"The magic… it's tearing apart!" he cried, his voice breaking, his hands trembling as he stared at the crystal's remains, scattered like ashes over the charred map. The lesser mages crumpled, some covering their faces, others muttering broken prayers.

Alaric clenched his fists, his armor creaking as he gazed at the red sky, the closed fissures throbbing like living wounds. Blood dripped from his nose and eyes, staining the marble beneath his boots, but his gaze was steel, a fury defying the abyss staring back from above. The trumpets had fallen silent, but their echo—the first omen, the "first echo" of a Queen—resounded in his soul like a war drum. Eldoria teetered on the edge of a precipice, facing a power they couldn't fathom, a cosmos judging them with cold, hungry eyes—and he knew, with a certainty that chilled his heart, that this was merely the beginning of something far greater.