Didacts

The foundations of the Palace were unlike anything Mirak had ever seen. It looked as though words themselves had been spun into the resin, forming the very bedrock of the structure. Ancient and alien, the resin solidified into physical form while the words—layer upon layer of them—twisted and flowed, creating a lattice that seemed to defy the laws of nature. The roaring tides of the Shard River crashed into these impossible foundations, only to flow harmlessly through the gaps in the words, as if repelled by the very will of the Palace itself. It was colossal, imposing, yet strangely elegant.

Mirak stopped in his tracks, his mouth slightly agape as he took it in. "I… I've never seen anything so…"

"Elegant? Beautiful? Most people seem to fall under one of those two categories when they see it," Sanni remarked, her tone carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Mirak shook his head, his words finally finding him. "Imposing," he said aloud, the enormity of the Palace pressing on him like a physical weight.

Ahead of them, the finely greased gates swung open in utter silence, revealing the entrance. Everything was polished to an impossible sheen, each surface reflecting light as though it had been crafted yesterday. Beyond the gates, a sprawling garden greeted them. A fountain stood at the center, its water arcing gracefully into the air before cascading down in shimmering plumes. Autumn leaves drifted lazily from the trees, their vibrant reds and golds scattered across the resin-paved walkway. Statues of the Lady of Flesh lined the path, each carved from marble so fine it looked as though the figures might move at any moment. The Lady's face was veiled with translucent cloth, and her robes seemed to ripple with a life of their own.

Sanni reached for Mirak's arm, her grip firm as she pulled him closer. "There could be an assassin lurking anywhere," she said under her breath. "I can only hope Mother and Father deal with the problem soon."

"What are you talking about—" Mirak began, but Sanni silenced him with a sharp glance.

"If you act like a newborn faun," she said, her voice low but pointed, "then the lords and ladies will pluck you apart at the stem. Do not make yourself a target, Mirak."

He swallowed hard, nodding as he let her lead him forward. The Palace radiated an unnatural light, and even the ground beneath his boots seemed to pulse with an unexplainable energy. Each step felt like he was treading on something alive, something ancient and aware of his every movement.

The inside of the Palace, smaller but no less extravagant than its exterior, was polished to perfection. Resin mosaics decorated the floors, depicting scenes of battles, creation myths, and divine figures. Every detail felt purposeful, every corner humming with quiet power.

Sanni guided them through the labyrinthine halls, speaking in a measured tone. "There are a few breaks between court sessions, but for the first few hours, you'll need to remain by my side."

"Hours?" Mirak echoed, incredulous.

"Yes, hours," Sanni confirmed, glancing at him with a smirk. "Each Great House is expected to bring forth an appeal or grievance. Then follows at least an hour of debate for each topic, sometimes more if the Didacts deem it important. After the fourth house has made their case, there's a brief reprieve for the lords and ladies to gather their wits before the next round begins."

"At least there's a break," Mirak muttered, trying to suppress a groan.

Sanni's lips twitched in amusement. "I'll be the one doing the talking. You can see now why my brother avoids these meetings. They're bland, tedious, and every word is measured to the point of suffocation. You, however, should not and will not speak to the nobles."

They entered the throne room, and Mirak's breath caught once more. It was a masterpiece of power and artistry. Eight massive thrones of dark wood were arranged in a circle, each carved with intricate designs that represented the Great Houses of Koona. At the center of this circle were two thrones of silver, wrapped in wreaths of gold that glimmered like sunlight.

Sanni ascended to her throne of blackwood and seated herself gracefully, gesturing for Mirak to take his place to her left.

Above them, the lower-ranked nobles gathered in pews that overlooked the room. They whispered among themselves, their voices a quiet hum of speculation and intrigue. Mirak could feel their gazes falling on him, but he focused on standing tall and stoic, even as the weight of the Palace seemed to press down on him.

The grand doors slid open with practiced ease, and a nobleman entered. His robes of burgundy and gray shimmered faintly in the light, and a golden piece of jewelry adorned his hand, set with a deep burgundy gem.

"Lady Fell," the nobleman greeted with a slight bow. "I hadn't expected to see you in court."

Sanni inclined her head minutely. "I found myself yearning to return, Lord Omen."

Lord Omen took his seat, smoothing his robes as he replied, "Then perhaps this session will be more… tame in your brother's absence."

"Be careful, Lord Omen," Sanni said, her tone icy yet measured. "That almost sounded like a slight against Solomon."

Omen chuckled softly, raising a hand in mock surrender. "Your brother has an effect on others, Lady Fell. I simply meant that with him not here, the tension may not be so thick."

Before Sanni could respond, the doors opened again, and more nobles entered. Two older lords, dressed in clashing colors, bickered openly as they took their seats. Others followed, each representing one of the Great Houses, their expressions guarded as they acknowledged Sanni and Lord Omen with slight nods.

And then, the Didacts entered.

Silence fell over the room like a heavy shroud.

The first figure glided into the room with an almost ethereal grace. Golden threads of hair cascaded down their back, neatly tied into a braid. Their face, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the high windows, was both masculine and feminine, an enigma that defied categorization. Their cheekbones were sharp and defined, yet their soft, dimpled smile exuded a warmth that felt entirely human.

Their body swayed as if carried by an unseen wind, their movements impossibly fluid. Flowing robes, golden and silver, billowed lightly around them as they ascended to the central silver throne. Every step they took seemed to command the air around them, the weight of their presence pressing against Mirak like a wave.

Behind them followed the second Didact, a stark contrast to the first. Her raven-black hair was cut short, barely brushing her neck, and her crimson eyes scanned the room with a cool, disinterested gaze. Where the first radiated charisma, the second emanated raw power. Her heart-shaped face, with its pointed features, might have been described as beautiful were it not for the chilling authority that surrounded her.

Her silks and satins, though elegant, barely concealed the sinewy muscles beneath. She moved like a warrior, her steps deliberate and heavy, her boots echoing on the polished floor. If the first Didact was a shining beacon, this one was a blade—a weapon honed to perfection.

Mirak struggled to keep his composure as the Atta in the room shifted unnaturally, singing in response to the Didacts' presence. His fingers twitched as he fought to maintain control, his breath shallow as waves of energy rippled through the air.

The golden-haired Didact spoke first, their voice a rich baritone. "Estil's raiding parties have drunk heavily on the blood of Astad. A halt to the machine of war is inevitable."

The black-haired Didact, her voice silken yet firm, added, "As my brother said, the conflict will soon come to a close. But Astad will not rest. They will look to new lands to claim. Koona must remain vigilant."

Lord Omen, slouched in his seat, waved a hand dismissively. "It begins again, Didacts. Astad always seeks what it cannot have. We have no need to worry."

The black-haired Didact's gaze turned sharp, her words cutting through the air. "Leniency breeds revolt, Lord Omen. Do not forget who it is you serve."

The tension in the room was suffocating, the other nobles averting their gazes as the Didacts' words reverberated in their minds. Mirak clenched his fist, his heart pounding as he realized one thing: these were not mere men or women. The Didacts were something more.