Second council meeting

The council members had gathered for the first time since Etharell had been proclaimed king. Each of them seemed to understand why their sovereign had summoned this meeting. They all assumed that today's discussion would revolve around how to defend—or reclaim—the kingdom now under occupation.

Silence hung over the room like a shroud. The tension of war had seeped into the stone walls of the chamber. No one dared to break the stillness. Not until the doors creaked open.

The heavy oak doors groaned as they swung inward. Sunlight spilled into the dim hall, and through the shadows, a figure emerged.

Etharell, clad in the golden armor of royal legacy.

The resplendent, gilded plate armor gleamed under the light. The intertwined symbols of his ancient house emblazoned on his chest drew every gaze in the room. Each curve of the armor was masterfully crafted, as if to remind everyone of who he was—not merely a king, but a statue of war forged by gods.

Not a single murmur rose from the hall.

No council member stood. None dared. Kings did not attend councils in full armor. It was against tradition. Such an act could only mean one of three things: a threat, a warning… or a message. Regardless, it was unheard of. For a king to wear armor within the walls of his own palace was a rarity. And yet, Etharell had done just that.

Their shock was understandable—but none had the courage to speak of it. He might have been the ruler of a small kingdom, but he was still a king. And this was his court.

With heavy steps, Etharell crossed the hall and took his place upon the throne-like seat at the head of the chamber. Even the sound of his armor settling echoed across the stone, a deep, unwavering clang of authority.

Then he spoke. His voice was calm—but sharp as a blade.

"I hereby convene the first council of my reign. As you might expect, our first matter concerns the empire's invasion. One by one, you will each present your ideas on how we should respond."

The six seated figures exchanged wary glances. Behind the king stood Sir Caelen, the Lord Commander, performing his duty as always—stoic, expressionless.

The first to speak was Lord Reginald. With his arched nose and narrowed eyes, he always gave off the impression of a man steeped in schemes. Yet with golden hair, blue eyes, and a sharply defined jaw, he remained strikingly handsome for his age.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head, "I believe we should seek a peace treaty. We surrender the lands they have taken for now—regroup, strengthen, and reclaim them when the time is right."

"I see. Not a bad suggestion. Next."

Valren, the Captain of the Royal Guard, rose from his seat. Middle-aged, perpetually alert, and upright as a soldier carved from stone. His voice was calm but firm.

"Our troops await your orders, Majesty. We march. We scatter. And if we must, we fight house to house through the port streets."

Etharell gave him a slight nod of approval. Then his gaze shifted to Lirya. Despite her age, she had lost none of her feminine grace. Seated quietly in the corner as always, her years of loyalty beside Etharell's father were evident. Now, she was the head of foreign affairs. She smiled faintly and cleared her throat before speaking.

"The other realms remain silent," she said. "No one wants to aid the side that seems to be losing. But fear of Raddonan could be our leverage. The other kingdoms are still hesitant. If we appear strong, we might gain their support. The only issue… is time. We must endure long enough for help to arrive."

Etharell stepped closer, meeting her gaze.

"Write to them," he said. "But before the letter, make sure the city sees unity. We must appear strong—not righteous. Diplomacy means nothing without a clenched fist behind it."

Lirya bowed her head. "Understood."

A stir passed through the chamber. Lord Matthias stood. Broad-shouldered, with calculating eyes always brimming with silent schemes, he was one of the realm's most powerful nobles. His sun-darkened skin and forgettable features gave him the look of a man one might pass by daily without noticing—common, ordinary. But appearances deceived.

"Your Majesty, the people are afraid," he said. "And fear, left unchecked, turns to rebellion. To prevent that, we must act with resolve. But… the timing of that resolve is crucial. I believe we must end this war swiftly."

Etharell's eyes lingered on Matthias for a moment, then turned toward General Maern.

"What say you, Maern?"

The general rose. "Fear... is useful," he said. "If it's managed. Of course, we don't want our people to suffer. But what they need now isn't hope—it's direction. Under your command, we must defend the city and extract the best possible terms from the empire."

"Wise words. And what about you, my Grand Advisor Morell? Speak freely."

Morell slowly lifted his head. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes were calm—yet they held the glint of an old flame still burning. His long silver hair fell to his shoulders, his snow-white beard reaching his chest. The stillness of his presence commanded the room's full attention.

He spoke without raising his voice.

"Your Majesty," he said, choosing each word with deliberate care. "This war cannot be won through soldiers alone, nor through diplomacy or fear. What weakens us most right now… is indecision. The enemy armies have not only taken our lands—they have seized the people's faith as well."

He paused. Every ear was listening.

"I suggest only one thing: make a decision. Either become the symbol of resistance, or we bury the people's last hope. But whatever you intend to do, do it now. Because time is working in the enemy's favor."

Etharell fell silent. Though no one else was speaking, the silence somehow grew even heavier.

He lowered his head slightly. "So what you're telling me is... either decide to like a king, or don't decide at all."

Morell adjusted his glasses. "Exactly that."

Etharell closed his eyes. As if each word spoken was weighing itself on an invisible scale before him. Then he opened them again. The decision had been made.

He rose from his throne.

"Mobilize all units within the city," he declared firmly. "Valren, take full control of the streets. The ports are to be fortified. Maern, rally the entire army and enlist every able-bodied man in the city."

Then he turned to Lirya.

"By tomorrow morning, the letters must be on their way. To the other kingdoms… Let them not think we've fallen. If the city still stands, and the king is wearing armor, then that's not a defeat—it's the opening act."

He turned to face the entire room.

"Make all necessary preparations to defend the city. We will fight."

The council members bowed their heads in silent acceptance of Etharell's decision. Each of them now knew the choice had been made, and there would be no turning back. The air in the hall was no longer filled with silence—but with the weight of imminent action.

For a moment, Etharell turned to Sir Caelen.

"Martial law is to be declared in the castle. All entries and exits must be monitored. We cannot allow chaos within the city."

Caelen gave a short nod. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Lord Reginald shifted slightly in his chair. "Your Majesty, for the sake of the people's morale—"

"I will provide the morale," Etharell cut him off. "If it becomes necessary, I'll address the people myself. But not before discipline is established. We will not distribute hope without a decision behind it."

Chastened, Reginald bowed his head in silence.

Lirya spoke up again. "Some foreign envoys are still within the city. What would you have me say to them?"

Etharell answered without hesitation. "Tell them all the same thing: 'The kingdom has not fallen. The king is still here.' Nothing more is needed."

General Maern unfurled a map and spread it across the table, pointing to a location with his finger. "The imperial forces are advancing from here. At their pace, they'll reach our gates within two weeks. But in every city they pass, they establish supply lines. If we strike early—"

"No," Etharell said firmly. "This city is our last stronghold. We fortify first. The offense will come after."

Valren furrowed his brow. "Then we'll divide the city into sectors. Each sector will have small, agile units ready to respond quickly. Logistics will be handled internally."

"Have the full plan ready by morning. Present the details to me then," Etharell ordered.

Then, from within the folds of his armor, Etharell pulled out several pieces of paper.

"Now... let us move on to the second matter of the day."

The moment those words left his lips, the tension in the room thickened. Etharell leaned forward slightly to arrange the papers neatly on the table. Each one bore a hand-drawn sketch of a man—six in total—alongside written descriptions of their appearances. The illustrations varied in quality; some were more detailed, others more roughly drawn.

He straightened and looked around the room.

"Does anyone here recognize any of these six men?"