Chapter 12: The Council's Ultimatum

The chamber was cold. Not just from the high-vaulted ceilings or the crystalline walls that pulsed with the faint glow of the Spire's energy. The cold was deeper than that. It settled into Kieran as he stood before the assembled Council, his wrists bound in suppression cuffs, his Stormguard gauntlet confiscated.

Seven figures sat on the raised dais, their robes heavy with embroidery, their faces impassive. Behind them, the great window overlooked the storm that had shielded the Spire for centuries—a storm that was now faltering.

And yet, they did not speak of that.

Vaelen Strake stood slightly to the side, his expression unreadable. The High Commander's presence here made one thing clear: This was not a trial. This was a verdict.

The lead Councilor, Lord Marcen, leaned forward. His voice was smooth, practiced, the voice of a man who had long since stopped fearing consequences. "Kieran Voss. You have been accused of high treason against the Spire. Of conspiring with enemies beyond the barrier. And of bringing classified knowledge into unworthy hands."

Kieran kept his head high. He would not kneel. Not for them.

"I saved lives," he said, his voice steady. "I learned the truth. Vareth was abandoned, left to die while you built this city on lies."

A look of irritation crossed Lady Veyla's face, but she quickly masked it. So. There was doubt among them.

Marcen only sighed, as if he were addressing a wayward child. "The truth is what keeps this Spire standing, Kieran. The truth is that we endure because we do not let weakness spread." He steepled his fingers. "That is why we are giving you a choice."

Kieran didn't dare look at Vaelen, nor at the guards standing watch at the chamber's edge.

"You may yet serve the Spire," Marcen continued. "Swear loyalty. Renounce your treason. Forget the lies you have been told. And we will restore your standing."

His stomach turned. Restore his standing? After they had him dragged through the streets in chains?

"And if I don't?" Kieran asked.

Marcen's expression did not change. "Then you will be declared Wraithborn. Stripped of your name, your lineage, your place in this city. And executed at dawn."

The words rang through the chamber like a bell tolling the end of a life.

Kieran inhaled slowly, steadying himself. The Council had already made its decision. This was never a real choice.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then, Vaelen stepped forward at last. His voice was quiet. "You must think carefully, Kieran."

Kieran turned sharply to face him, searching his former mentor's expression for any sign of the man he had once trusted. Strake had arrested him. Had stood silent while the Council cast judgment. And now he dared to offer advice?

But when Kieran met his eyes, he saw something beneath the surface. A warning.

Vaelen didn't want him to take the deal.

Kieran clenched his fists. It didn't matter. The answer had already solidified in his mind.

He turned back to the Council. "No."

Marcen sighed again, disappointed but unsurprised. He nodded to the guards.

"Take him away."

The cell was built for breaking men.

Cold stone, no windows, only a single overhead lumen casting a pale glow over the walls. Kieran sat on the floor, his back against the iron bars, his wrists still bound in suppression cuffs. Without his gauntlet, without even the smallest weapon, he was caged—left to wait for execution at dawn.

The storm rumbled beyond the walls, distant but relentless. The barrier was failing, and yet the Council was more focused on silencing him than saving their own people.

Footsteps.

Kieran tensed, lifting his head. He expected a guard. Instead, it was Elias.

The Stormguard captain moved like a shadow, his usual confidence replaced by a quiet urgency. The key in his hand gleamed under the dim light.

"You're an idiot," Elias muttered as he knelt by the lock. "You should've taken the deal."

Kieran snorted. "And swear loyalty to a lie?"

"Loyalty is useful," Elias said. The lock clicked open. "You just have to know when to fake it."

Kieran rolled his wrists as the cuffs came off. Power prickled under his skin—not enough to fight his way out, but enough to run.

"Where's Rhea?" Kieran whispered.

"She's outside," Elias replied, stepping aside. "Now move before someone notices I'm committing treason for you."

Kieran hesitated only for a moment before following.

They slipped through the corridors like ghosts, avoiding the patrols sweeping the lower levels. The Spire was on high alert—not for the Wraithborn, but for him.

They reached the servant's passage—narrow, damp, and half-forgotten. At the far end, Rhea waited, her hood drawn low. Her fingers twitched on the hilt of her blade.

"You took too long," she said.

Kieran smirked. "Blame Elias."

She huffed, then turned sharply. "We need to move. The Council already ordered the gates locked."

Elias grimaced. "They're sealing the city."

Kieran's stomach dropped.

The Wraithborns were coming. And the Council's response was to trap everyone inside.

A distant horn split the air.

The three of them froze.

The warning signal.

Kieran turned to the others, his heart pounding. "The storm is breaking."

And beyond the Spire walls, the Wraithborns marched.

Kieran, Elias, and Rhea sprinted through the lower districts of the Spire, weaving through the chaos of locked gates and barricades hastily being erected. The warning horns had thrown the city into a frenzy—civilians shouted, Stormguards scrambled, and the sky itself churned with energy.

Kieran's pulse hammered in his ears as he risked a glance toward the horizon.

Beyond the towering outer walls, the storm—the impossible, unrelenting storm that had caged the world for decades—was coming apart.

Lightning split the clouds, but instead of fading, the streaks of white-hot energy lingered, trembling midair, veins of raw power fraying at the edges. The wall of roiling blackness that had once shielded the Spire from the wastelands beyond was unraveling, thinning in places, like tattered cloth.

And through the gaps, shapes moved.

Kieran felt a shudder run through his spine. He knew what was coming. They were not human anymore.

Rhea skidded to a stop beside him, her breath sharp. "They're already at the threshold."

Elias swore under his breath. "Then we don't have time."

Time for what? Kieran thought bitterly. Time to run? To hide? To warn a Council that had already chosen its own survival over truth?

A sudden roar of thunder cracked across the sky.

Then, the storm collapsed.

The barrier that had imprisoned Vareth—that had sealed an entire civilization away to die—was gone in an instant, vaporized into nothing. Silence swallowed the world for one terrible breath.

Then the screaming began.

The outer gates shuddered under an inhuman force.

A low, guttural howl rose from beyond the walls—a chorus of voices that had once been men but had long since lost their souls. The Wraithborns had come.

Kieran staggered back, his breath ragged.

This wasn't just a battle.

Rhea unsheathed her blade, her voice tight. "We need to get to the inner keep before—"

The first impact hit.

The Spire's gates didn't just break. They shattered.