Two Days Later after Moonfen incident
The skies above Velrenmar had never been clearer.
Which, in the capital's long memory, usually meant something was brewing.
The second faction trial — originally scheduled to resume today — had been postponed.
Officially: for "rest and restructuring."
Unofficially: because no one knew how to explain what the hell happened in Moonfen Reach.
And the rumors… were relentless.
"Did you hear? Apparently Silverquill, Northcrest, and Stonehelm ran some covert operation in the Reach. Didn't even tell the Headmaster."
"They say a Velrenmar student caught them. They say he's half-dead now."
"They say it was an accident."
"They also say they left him to bleed out."
"And they got caught?"
"Oh, they got caught, three of them. Each from different factions aswell. You don't screw around in Velrenmar's backyard and walk away clean."
In markets, bakeries, and tea-houses, the public whispered louder than ever.
Everyone had an opinion.
None had the full truth.
But that never stopped anyone.
"You ask me," a spice merchant muttered to a customer, "it's a gift from the saints. Another whole week of outsiders staying here. We're gonna sell out every stuff, every toys, every bun, every tour blanket with faction logos."
"They delayed the trials, sure — but tourism's booming. I haven't seen this much money in circulation since the last storm year!"
Even the city's stray cats looked fed.
The only ones not celebrating?
The faction heads.
Because now, the eyes of the continent weren't on the scoreboard —
They were on the scandal.
Same day After the Moonfen Incident
Velrenmar Public Forum Hall – East Sector, Morning
The chamber was packed.
From every corner of the marble-lined hall, members of the Velrenmar press leaned in — notebooks scrawling, truth-threads humming, and enchanted mirrors capturing every breath. Long wooden benches creaked beneath elbows and elbows of editors, while voice-stones pulsed with slow-burning heat, recording every syllable.
The atmosphere?
Tense. Eager. Hungry.
Because today, two faction heads were giving a public address.
And this wasn't just any press.
This was Velrenmar's media — widely known as the most relentless, inquisitive, and borderline bloodthirsty press body on the planet.
You didn't dodge questions here. You either answered, or you bled under them.
At the podium stood Esera Saelth, Commander of Stonehelm — sharp-eyed, clad in silver-etched armor, her presence as rigid as the mountain she represented.
Beside her, robed in mist-grey with hands folded over the table, sat Kieran Duskvale of Northcrest — distant, polished, unreadable.
Neither smiled.
A voice rang out from the gallery:
"To begin — is it true you conducted an unauthorized expedition into Moonfen Reach during the first trial week?"
No hesitation.
Esera replied first, her voice like granite.
"There was no official expedition. The actions taken by certain individuals were unsanctioned."
Another voice cut in from the second tier.
Fast. Sharp. That one was from The Mirror Chronicle.
"Unsanctioned? Yet they bore your faction insignias. Operated with advanced support. Entered a sovereign-protected site. Is that not deliberate action?"
Kieran tilted his head slightly, his voice as cool as snowfall.
"No directive came from me. Northcrest had no registered operations in the Reach."
"But someone did," came another voice — Torchblade Weekly, quick and accusatory.
"And one of your agents left a student half-dead in a ruin. That's not a misunderstanding."
Esera's eyes narrowed.
"We are investigating. Let me make it clear — Rhael Moren was not acting under orders. If he attacked a Velrenmar student, it was not sanctioned."
That name — Rhael Moren — brought murmurs.
Everyone in the room knew it.
A name tied to blood, whispers, and a reputation for silence followed by screaming.
A younger reporter leaned forward, voice trembling slightly:
"And this student, his name not enclosed to public. Did he trespass on your operations? Or… is it true he uncovered something?"
For a moment, both leaders were quiet.
Too quiet.
Kieran broke the silence:
"If he found something, he did so while interfering with a volatile site."
"That student is alive. Stable, I've been told. And from what I've heard… he wasn't exactly innocently walking through the woods."
"You're saying he was in the wrong?"
"I'm saying," Kieran replied calmly, "that danger isn't one-sided."
Esera followed, more clipped:
"He was injured. That is regrettable. He will receive a formal apology."
A new voice from the upper box shouted:
"Is that apology coming from you… or from your subordinates, who acted without oversight?"
"Both."
"So he wasn't targeted?"
"Of course not."
More murmurs.
One of the vision-inks caught a flicker of tension across Esera's jaw.
Even Kieran's gloved fingers tightened once at the wrist.
A pause.
Then—
"Was anything recovered from the site?" asked the Velrenmar Duskline.
Silence.
"Did your operatives encounter what many are now calling a verified Artekarna chamber?"
Again — no answer.
Still nothing.
The Velrenmar Press had smelled blood. Now they wanted the bite.
"We're also told your operatives left without filing official entries. And that the ruins are now quarantined. You expect the public to believe this wasn't a coordinated effort to extract powerful relics under false flags?"
Kieran exhaled softly.
"There is no confirmation of 'Artekarna' recovered from that site."
"Unofficially?"
"Ask your student," he said. "When he wakes up."
That was when the gallery fell silent.
Not from satisfaction — from frustration.
They weren't getting denials.
They weren't getting admissions.
They were getting velvet-coated dismissals.
The worst kind.
As the questioning died down, one final voice rose — young, sharp, Velrenmar-born:
"So just to clarify for the record… the injured student will receive an apology, and the ruins are now under Velrenmar custody, correct?"
Esera answered.
"Correct."
Kieran added, without emotion:
"As they should be."
And with that, the press meet ended.
But not the whispers,
"Convenient, isn't it? When something goes wrong — it's always the unnamed, unsanctioned, unnoticed scouts. Does no one control their people anymore?"
Not the consequences.
Private Sector – Velrenmar Tower Annex
Night- 1:32 PM, Three Days After the moonfen reach incident
The chamber was high above the city, tucked into one of Velrenmar's old sky-annexes — a relic of architecture older than most of the continents united under the Seven.
The doors were sealed. The windows were veiled with silence wards. No aides. No scribes. Just three chairs, one table, and three people who weren't used to being told "no."
Esera Saelth sat with her arms crossed, shoulder plates dimmed to gray steel. Kieran Duskvale leaned back slightly in his chair, unreadable as ever, snow-draped hair glinting under the amber lights.
Then came the last arrival.
A whisper of ink. A step that made no sound.
Orrik Valehand, the head of Silverquill, slid in like a secret too amused to be kept.
His coat was spotless. His fingers gloved in pearl-white, and most unsettling, his black sclera. And unlike the other two, he was smiling.
"You both looked miserable," Orrik said lightly, dropping into the seat with the elegance of a man unbothered by reality. "All that poise — gone with three questions and a peasant-pressed mirror stone."
Kieran didn't answer.
Esera's jaw tensed.
"Shut up, Orrik," she muttered.
"Why?" Orrik spread his hands lazily. "We gambled. We lost. I just have the manners to laugh about it."
Kieran spoke then, voice soft.
"You didn't even send a proper team."
"No, but I sent a clever one. Clearly too clever for you two."
"Your agent nearly almost peed himself," Esera snapped.
"And your agent talked loud enough to bring half the forest with him," Orrik countered, unbothered. "Let's not pretend we didn't all intend the same thing."
Silence.
Then—
"This country," Esera said, rubbing her temple, "has the worst godsdamn press I've ever seen."
"Oh, definitely," Orrik agreed instantly. "In any other country, we'd have them replaced by morning. And in our Colonies, they'd have their tongues marked. But here? They multiply when cornered."
"One more headline," Esera muttered, "and my faction going to start pulling investments."
The room hadn't cooled. Not really.
Despite the silence wards, the air still held the tension of sharp words and sharper failures. The table between the three faction heads sat cluttered — not with wine or ink, but with regret, political dust, and bruised egos.
Orrik Valehand spun a quill between two fingers, humming some irreverent tune under his breath.
Esera Saelth had given up crossing her arms — now she just gripped the edge of the table like it might bite her next.
And Kieran Duskvale, leader of Northcrest, said the thing they'd all been thinking,
"It would've worked."
He looked down, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"If not for him… it would've worked."
Esera's jaw tightened.
"Asteran Vaile…"
Chancellor of the Council of Accordance.
Bearer of the Silent Scales.
The only man alive who could legally pass judgment on faction heads without consulting their own High Seats.
Even Orrik stopped humming.
The name landed with weight.
A name that made even them hesitate.
"Of all people," Esera muttered, voice tight
The last time he held court outside of Senvaar, three bloodlines lost their status and an entire ruling house fled across the sea."
"We weren't supposed to matter enough," Esera added. "Not here. Not this damn country."
A long pause.
Orrik leaned back, gaze flicking toward the darkened skyline through the high windows.
"And tomorrow," he said softly, "he's the one holding court."
"In public."
Esera swore under her breath.
"The old man's going to love this."
Kieran didn't speak. But his fingers pressed together slightly — a twitch of control slipping.
Then A knock happened. Unexpected.
Three taps. Not loud. Not hesitant either.
The kind of knock you gave when you already knew who was inside.
The three faction heads froze.
The sound had no place here — the room was sealed, hidden within Velrenmar's Tower Annex. No press. No students. No one should've known they were here.
Esera stood up sharply, hand already at her belt.
Kieran turned his head toward the door, silent as breath.
Orrik didn't move. Just tapped his quill once on the desk.
The door creaked open without permission.
Barefoot steps padded in softly.
And there she was.
Maedra Ruusk.
Crimson hair loose. Sleeves rolled. No escort. No formalities. No pretense.
Just her and the look of someone who already knew everything.
Her eyes flicked across the room, noting every expression, every unfinished drink, every chair out of place.
She grinned.
"Thought I'd find the lot of you sulking in a backroom."
No one responded.
Esera stared. Kieran's face remained unreadable.
Orrik arched a brow.
Maedra stepped further inside, dusting invisible dirt from her shoulder like she'd walked here through miles of ash.
"I heard a rumor," she said, voice light, playful.
"Something about three heads of factions illegally meddling in a ruin inside another country's territory. Injuring a student. Stealing relics that weren't theirs."
Her eyes flicked to Orrik, then Esera, then finally Kieran.
"...Then holding a secret meeting two nights later to figure out how to bury the mess."
"Rumors, of course."
"Nasty things."
She stopped near the window, gazing out casually over Velrenmar's skyline.
"You should've used a better silence ward."
Esera narrowed her eyes.
"You spying on us, Ruusk?"
Maedra turned back slowly. Her smile was small. Knowing.
"No. Watching. There's a difference."
Orrik snorted. "Do all wildlings sneak around council chambers now?"
Maedra laughed.
"Please. I don't sneak. I walk in when I want."
"And right now—"
She stepped closer to the table. Her tone shifted, ever so slightly. Still calm. Still composed.
The silence cracked.
All four auras surged — not violently, but undeniably. Like thunder rolling from four different skies.
The pressure in the room bent the table legs.
Chairs creaked. Lights dimmed.
And then — as fast as it began — it faded.
Orrik clicked his fingers and the ink snapped back.
Esera exhaled sharply and stepped away from the table.
Kieran withdrew his hands into his sleeves again.
Maedra simply yawned.
"—what you wanted doesn't matter anymore."
A pause.
"Because Asteran's holding court tomorrow."
She leaned one hand against the table, eyes now fully serious.
"And I plan to be in the front row."
Then she turned — and just like that, walking out. Bare feet, soft steps, leaving nothing but unease behind.
But she Paused.
Then added over her shoulder, one eyes closed—
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Bring your best lies."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Kieran exhaled through his nose.
"She knew the whole time."
Orrik leaned back in his chair, finally dropping the quill.
"Of course she did."
The door shut behind Maedra with a whisper.
The room stayed silent for a long time.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Because in twelve hours, they wouldn't be giving statements.
They'd be giving answers.