The Gathering

Agor sat in the dimly lit room, his fingers tracing the uneven wooden surface of the chair he had collapsed onto.

The air carried the scent of scorched metal, oil, and something deeper—iron, sweat, and fire—the essence of a blacksmith's life.

The dying forge cast flickering shadows across the modest yet formidable dwelling. It was obvious: this was the home of a blacksmith.

Exhausted yet restless, Agor's weary eyes scanned the room.

Weapons adorned the walls—blades of various lengths, battle-worn shields, and a set of throwing knives arranged with meticulous precision.

His gaze lingered on a table in the far corner. Amidst scattered scraps of metal and half-burnt scrolls lay a single piece of unfinished hand armor—an intricate steel gauntlet with grooves carved along its fingers, as if designed to channel energy.

Who does this belong to?

Agor stood, his fingertips brushing against the cool steel, tracing the markings absentmindedly. Before he could dwell on the thought, exhaustion pulled him back onto the bed.

Sleep came swiftly. His breathing slowed.

His mind drifted…

And then, darkness.

*****************

Refreshed, Garrick made his way toward the Great Hall. The corridors of Eaglestone stretched vast and unyielding, carved into the very heart of the mountain. Torches flickered along the stone passageways, their flames swaying with the cold mountain air.

The path wound through narrow alleys and steep stairways, revealing glimpses of the civilization built into the cliffs—small homes stacked upon one another, hanging bridges connecting the mountain city's different sections.

Tonight, however, the streets were empty.

The towering doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, carved with ancient symbols, massive and imposing, as if bearing the weight of centuries. Two guards in black robes pushed them open.

Inside, the hall trembled with voices. A sea of people pressed together in tight clusters, their grievances rising like smoke from a dying fire.

The chamber was colossal, its ceiling lost in the shadows above. At its farthest end stood the king's throne, carved from polished stone. Even in his absence, it radiated power.

The King wasn't present due to an illness the dat before

Next to the throne, Queen Seraphina Vael'theris sat in poised authority, her golden robes shimmering under the torchlight. Yet, despite her noble bearing, her fingers clenched the armrests in frustration; she hadn't imagined she would head this gathering.

She was restless, but tried not to show it.

Beside her sat the young prince and princess, their eyes wide with curiosity. Behind them, two of the king's concubines whispered among themselves.

Before the queen, beneath the podium ; the Vaen'ari—the Diviners, keepers of fate—sat in a solemn row, their white robes pooling like untouched snow. Opposite them, the Summoners, warriors of mystical arts, occupied their designated seats—eight in total, though four remained empty.

The two Summoners who had fought earlier now quietly took their places.

Kaelis arrived moments later, taking her place amongst them.

Beneath them, seated on either side, were the Elders of the noble houses in their own decorated white regalia.

And before them, the common folk had gathered, their faces a mixture of hope and frustration.

Their voices rose in desperate pleas.

"The wells are running dry!" an elderly man cried. "We ration what we can, but if the lockdown continues, we won't last the next cycle."

Another stepped forward, his expression dark. "The lower districts are unsafe. Thieves lurk in the shadows, and some women have been… taken. Justice must be served!"

A young woman, barely past girlhood, trembled as she spoke. "My sister was dragged into the caves last moon. The guards say they search, but they find nothing. How long must we live in fear?"

A mother's anguished cry cut through the air. "My daughter was taken in the night!"

The Queen raised a hand for silence, but only a fraction of the crowd heeded her.

Tension roiled, thick and suffocating. It was getting louder and out of control.

Then—

A sound.

A staff striking stone.

The deep, measured thud rippled through the hall, like a hammer against an anvil.

A hush spread, swallowing every voice.

Then came the announcement, resounding with the weight of history.

"All rise. Make way for His Majesty—"

The air shifted, heavy with unspoken reverence.

"Vaelor Aurelian Vael'theris, First of His Name."

"King of the Summoners, of the Vaen'ari, and of the First Men."

"Lord of Eaglestone and Protector of the Realm."

The bronze doors groaned open.

And then, he appeared.

Vaelor I of House Aurelian.

A figure draped in history itself.

His gold-embroidered cloak trailed behind him, lined with ancient runes whose glow had long since faded. His once-mighty frame, though hunched with age, carried the remnants of a ruler who had once commanded battlefields.

His hair—long, white, thinning.

His eyes—faded blue, like a winter sky dimmed by years.

His crown—slightly tilted, barely clinging to his furrowed brow.

Age had not been kind to him. Wisdom and grief sat heavy upon his bones.

He moved slowly, deliberately, each step echoing across the chamber. The King's Guard, clad in midnight-black armor, flanked him, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.

The entire hall stood as one.

No one spoke.

No one breathed.

Reverence. Respect. Fear.

The Queen rose to greet him, inclining her head in submission as he took his seat.

One of the royal advisors leaned in, whispering into the King's ear. Vaelor listened, his expression unreadable. A slow nod was his only response.

And then, he rose to speak.

His voice, though weakened by time, still carried the weight of command.

But when he spoke, it was not in the common tongue.

A deep, resounding voice echoed through the chamber—ancient, commanding:

"Vālrak tirūm qash'tar. Thālen drāvus kalthīr en vah'mor."

A hush fell over the hall.

Though foreign, the words vibrated in the bones of all who listened. Even those who did not understand felt their meaning seep into their souls.

A translator stepped forward, his voice steady.

"Stone endures, but only when the people within are strong. Weakness leads to ruin, and ruin leads to death."

The King's gaze swept over the crowd, his frail fingers gripping the throne.

"Korthun vel'sha nathrak dos'vai. Mir'ah kel thūran ek varnos."

The interpreter continued:

"The wells will be restored. The mountain has not yet given its last. My Diviners shall seek water, and my Summoners shall ensure it is the lockdown is safe so the gates are oppened."

Murmurs spread. Some nodded, others remained doubtful.

The King's next words carried an air of finality:

"Nash'kal viron da'shar ethūn. Qorlath mir d'val korvak."

The interpreter's voice rang loud and clear:

"For those who prey upon our people, there shall be no mercy. Every thief shall be hunted. Every criminal shall be punished. This, I swear upon the blood of Eaglestone."

A hush settled once more.

The King, his strength nearly spent, sank back into his throne. The crowd began to disperse, their whispers filling the chamber.

At the far side of the hall, four Summoners huddled in conversation, their gazes flickering toward the entrance. It was clear they spoke of the earlier commotion outside the gates.

Kaelis, standing next to the commander not too far of, whispered something to his ears.

The commander's gaze turned cold and calculating as he scanned the crowd.

Then—he stopped.

His eyes locked onto one man.

Garrick.

A shiver ran down Garrick's spine. He clenched his fists, steadying himself.

Whatever had just been said about him—it was enough to warrant the commander's full attention.

And in Eaglestone, that was never a good thing.