Meeting

The high ceiling of the pavilion swallowed their voices, dense with silence and anticipation. The man on the throne, known only as the King, Theodemar I, let that silence linger for a moment. His dark eyes, like empty pits on his pale face, scanned each face before him. The fire in the corner hearth cast a dim flicker against his blood-stained gray armor, the very armor that had secured his place on the throne. Behind him stood a massive sword, sheathed in black leather, like a monolith, far too large for any ordinary man to wield.

"Marshal Montrevaux," the King's voice finally cut through the silence. It was hoarse, yet carried a weight that made everyone in the room hold their breath. "General Gurdner's report speaks of violations. From a military standpoint, how do you view the actions of Fravikveidimadr?"

Marshal Elric Montrevaux, a lean man with neatly combed silver hair and a flawless navy-blue military uniform, cleared his throat. He belonged to the military aristocracy, which meant he saw war as an exact science. "Your Majesty," he began, his voice methodical, "Fravikveidimadr, or the Organization for the Handling of Aberrations and Anomalies, technically operates under military jurisdiction for national security. However, their vast autonomy has made oversight difficult."

He opened a folder on the table before him. "The experimentation on Silas Nolhome, as reported by General Gurdner, is a clear ethical breach. But tactically speaking, the data they've gathered on the Channel known as 'The Empathic Giver' is invaluable. The ability to heal grave wounds on the battlefield, even at risk to the healer, is an asset we cannot ignore."

"So you justify the torture of a citizen for the sake of 'data'?" another voice interjected. It was Count Bestien Laurevant, Minister of the Interior. His round, reddened face betrayed barely restrained anger. A staunch bureaucrat, he was a man who placed law and order above all else. "That organization was meant to protect us from anomalies, not create them. They've overstepped their bounds."

"Bounds are a flexible concept in warfare, Count," Montrevaux replied coolly. "The threats we face from neighboring kingdoms and the Aberrations emerging from the borders are escalating. We need every advantage we can get. Fravikveidimadr gives us that advantage. They are our scalpel in a world riddled with cancer."

"A scalpel that could turn and sever the surgeon's own hand," said Duke Anselm Rothenmaar, his deep, calm voice cutting into the debate. The oldest man in the room, Duke Rothenmaar was bald, his face lined with wisdom and cunning. As head of the royal intelligence network, he did not see the world as a battlefield or a stack of laws, but as a web of intrigue. "The issue isn't what Fravikveidimadr is doing, but who is allowing them to do it. They do not operate in a vacuum. Their budget is approved by the council. Their political shield comes from somewhere."

His eyes glanced briefly at Count Laurevant, a wordless accusation. Everyone in the room knew that several departments under the Ministry of the Interior had a symbiotic relationship with Fravikveidimadr, exchanging information and resources.

The King remained silent, letting his ministers probe each other's defenses. He was uninterested in moral debates. He was watching the power structure. The Vlashmir report was an opening move, a gambit. Now, he was observing how the other pieces would respond.

"We move to the second subject," the King said, slicing through the tension. "Welt Rothes."

The name hung in the air.

"A boy with no record," the King continued, his eyes now fixed on Vlashmir Gurdner. "Smuggled into our military academy. Trained by one of your best officers, Lieutenant Vahtrein. And now, according to Duke Rothenmaar's report, he leads a corporate entity acquiring strategic assets in the harbor district, with the backing of The Consortium."

Vlashmir Gurdner, Grand General of the Border Legion, cleared his throat. A seasoned soldier, his loyalty was solely to the King and the Realm. "Your Majesty, I acknowledge my oversight. The boy was placed under Fravikveidimadr's jurisdiction while in the academy. The military merely provided physical training upon their request. We were unaware of their true agenda."

"Their agenda is now quite clear," said Duke Rothenmaar, opening his own folder. "Boyle Acquisitions, the boy's shell company, has in the last three months taken control of five major warehouses, two minor logistics routes, and an informant network in the harbor district. His moves are swift, precise, and economically ruthless. He is dismantling House Droct's influence not with swords, but with ledgers. And The Consortium, clearly, supports him. This is no longer a side project of Fravikveidimadr. It is a well-funded operation with a clear objective."

"What objective?" asked Count Laurevant, genuinely perplexed.

"Control," Duke Rothenmaar answered simply. "Control over the flow of goods and information in the harbor. Whoever controls the harbor controls much of Clockthon's economy. And whoever controls the economy holds tremendous political leverage."

"An eighteen-year-old boy," Marshal Montrevaux muttered, his voice tinged with forced disbelief. "Even with the support of Fravikveidimadr and The Consortium, this… makes no sense. Unless the boy is something else."

"He is clearly a divergent variable," said the King. "Just like Silas Nolhome. Fravikveidimadr has poured resources into both of them, trained them, and from the documents I've read, they've turned these two subjects into weapons. The key difference is, Silas is a biological weapon. This boy is both an economic and strategic weapon."

The King leaned forward, the shadows shifting from his face, revealing his dark, hollow eyes. "The question is no longer 'who' Welt Rothes is. The question is, 'whose' is he now? Fravikveidimadr? The Consortium? Or…" he paused, "…his own?"

Silence once again cloaked the room. The implications of the King's last question were chilling. An individual of such intellect and capability, unbound to any faction, posed the gravest threat of all.

"We cannot allow this," said Count Laurevant firmly. "We must apprehend him. Interrogate him. Unravel his entire operation. Taken together, this is clearly a direct threat to the kingdom's stability!"

"Apprehend him?" Montrevaux let out a dry laugh. "How? By accusing him of sound business practices? Everything he's done, according to the Duke's report, is completely legal. He hasn't broken a single law. Besides, attempting to capture him would be a declaration of open war against The Consortium and likely Fravikveidimadr as well. Are you prepared to trigger civil war in the heart of the capital, Count?"

"So we just let him build his empire?" Laurevant shot back, now red-faced with rage rather than shame.

"No," said Duke Rothenmaar. "We observe. We study him. We find his weakness. No matter how brilliant or revisionist someone is, no matter their personality, they always have one blind spot, pride. He may believe he can control all variables alone. Our job is to become the variable he cannot control. You understand my meaning?"

The King leaned back into his throne. He had heard enough. The power map was laid before him. Fravikveidimadr, born of government intent, had become too powerful and autonomous. The Consortium, an enigmatic economic force playing behind the scenes. House Droct and other military factions, wolves fighting over territory. And at the center of it all, two foreign variables, Silas and Welt, pieces or players that could upend the entire game.

"Royal law is clear regarding experimentation on citizens without council consent," said the King, his tone flat once more. "Fravikveidimadr has committed treason."

"Issuing a decree against them will ignite conflict, Your Majesty," Montrevaux warned. "Many council members and nobles are indebted to or contractually bound to them."

"Loyalty bought with coin or fear is not loyalty," the King replied. "It is a weakness waiting to be exploited."

He turned to Vlashmir Gurdner. "General, ready the Border Legion. Not to strike—but to stand by. I want the presence of the Crown's loyal military felt throughout the city."

"Understood, Your Majesty," Gurdner replied without hesitation.

The King then turned to Duke Rothenmaar. "Duke, I want you focused on The Consortium. Find out who they are, their endgame, and most importantly, how deeply their claws have sunk into our government."

"It shall be done, Your Majesty."

Then, his gaze fell on Count Laurevant. "Count, you will conduct a full audit of every department under your ministry. Every transaction, every contract, every communication linked to Fravikveidimadr. I want to know who their friends are in the council."

Count Laurevant nodded, visibly relieved to be given a concrete task.

Finally, the King looked to Marshal Montrevaux. "Marshal, yours is the hardest task. You will engage Welt Rothes, not with blades, of course, use strategy. I give you authority to use military resources to pressure his operations. Test him. Push him. I want to see how he responds under true pressure. I want to know the limits of his capabilities."

Montrevaux's eyes gleamed. This was his kind of war, strategic war.

"This meeting is adjourned," said the King, rising from his throne. "Each of you knows your task."

One by one, the ministers bowed and departed, leaving the King alone in the dim pavilion.

He walked to the large window, gazing down at the city of Clockthon sprawling below. The sky had begun to darken, and the gaslamps flickered to life, creating a sea of artificial light in the natural darkness.

He had issued his orders, moved his pieces. But for the first time in a long while, he felt something unusual.

Doubt.

He was facing too many unknown variables. Fravikveidimadr, The Consortium, Forre, and now, Welt Rothes. All were products of a world vastly different from his own, one that no longer obeyed the rules of the Channel system or any such tradition.

He touched the old scar on his face, remembering the final battle that had earned him the throne. It had been simple, see an enemy, crush them. But now, the enemies were invisible. The enemy was the system. An ideology. And a boy with the mind of a devil and the face of an angel.

The battlefield had changed.

And he was no longer certain that the massive sword behind him was sharp enough to face it.

The room felt cold, and for a moment, the black stone throne felt less like a seat of power, and more like a tomb.