Tag: fantasy

~870 words

The council chamber was a vast oval, ringed with marble pillars, every one carved with a record of war. The seats for the Council fanned out from a long, narrow table, its surface bare save for ink and paper. At the far end, Queen Eloise sat in her high-backed throne, her gown the shade of dying violets, her face as pale and unforgiving as winter. The court was full — nobles, a retinue of scribes and guards — and all of them silent as the companions entered.

At her right, the seat for the Mage was empty. Cedric’s stomach twisted, but he showed nothing. He bowed, Elira and Ryn following suit, Tomas bobbing more than bowing.

Eloise’s voice broke the silence, sharp and unadorned. “Report.”

Cedric stepped forward. “Majesty. We reached the monastery at Delrith. The League of the Moon found us there. We managed to recover a primary source, but…” He hesitated, then forced it out. “We lost Auralias. He stayed behind to hold off pursuit and ensure our escape. We believe he is dead.”

The court did not gasp. There was a more subtle reaction: the ripple of discomfort, the tightening of fingers around chair arms, the almost imperceptible shuffling as people recalculated the balance of power. At the dais, Queen Eloise’s hand gripped the throne so tightly that the veins stood out on her wrist.

Tomas managed to find his voice. “We have proof. The League is not just a cult — they are organised, disciplined. Their goal is to reassemble ancient artifacts of the old Empire and use them to seize power over every kingdom. It’s not a myth. It’s—” He trailed off, eyes wide as the implication landed.

Baron Gorgo stood, his bulk forcing the men on either side to cower away from him. “If this is true, then we must move now. Strike at every suspected agent, burn the infection from the city.”

High Councillor Voss coughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. “We have no evidence beyond the testimony of a handful of survivors. What if this is fearmongering? What if the so-called League is but a puppet, and the real threat lies elsewhere?”

Lady Veyra, who had not spoken, fixed the companions with a stare so cold Tomas’ chest tightened. “And what of the Mage? If he is so easily lost, how can we trust you to stand against the League?”

Cedric’s voice was a flat line. “Auralias was the strongest among us. He bought us the time to bring this warning. If you question our loyalty, you may as well summon the executioner now.”

A murmur ran around the table — some found it brave, others suicidal. Queen Eloise did not flinch.

“We will not be provoked into rash action,” she said, her voice a blade. “Ardanthia has survived by caution, not bravado.”

Gorgo laughed, a sound that rattled the torches on the walls. “Caution is what the world calls cowardice, when it looks back at ruined cities.”

At the table, the silence rebuilt itself. Queen Eloise spoke at last, her words measured and final. “You have done your duty, and the realm owes you. Rest. You will be summoned if needed.” She dismissed them with a gesture.

As the companions turned to leave, the doors at the far end of the chamber exploded open. Two guards struggled to restrain a figure between them, half-dragged, half-walking, his blue cloak tattered, the white of his hair now streaked with blood and dust.

Auralias.

He stumbled forward, collapsing against the council table, his breath rasping in his chest. The guards tried to pull him upright, but he shook them off, barely able to keep his feet.

The court erupted — not in applause, not in approval, but in a stunned, horrified silence. Queen Eloise rose from her seat, the movement so abrupt the guards flinched back. Baron Gorgo reached for his sword. Even Lady Veyra looked up, the mask of composure slipping for an instant.

Auralias raised his head, blood running down the line of his jaw. “Forgive me,” he croaked, “for the interruption. I have news.”

He gripped the back of the nearest chair to keep from collapsing.

The room held its breath, the fate of the realm balancing on a ragged edge, waiting for the next word to tip it either way.

For a full minute, the hall was silent but for the wet trickle of blood from Auralias’s temple, pattering onto the polished floor in erratic counterpoint to the wild pulse in every chest. No one moved. Even Baron Gorgo’s hands, usually restless, had stilled on the arms of his chair, his eyes locked on the mage as if trying to will him back into the grave from which he’d clearly escaped. Lady Veyra tilted her head, eyes narrowed, as though observing a particularly clever parlour trick with the potential to upend the world.

Auralias straightened, shuddered, and found his breath. When he spoke, his voice was not the sonorous music it once had been; it scraped the air, raw and urgent.

“Your Majesty. Council. I regret the spectacle, but I would not have returned had it not been vital.” He coughed, and the blood painted a fresh streak down his jaw. “I have spent the last three weeks hunted by the League and worse things. Only the death of their Magister and the chaos after let me slip free. The League of the Moon is real. They are many, and now, they are desperate.”

The word ‘real’ ricocheted around the marble like a stone thrown through stained glass. A low ripple of horror passed through the gallery, some nobles gasping, others crossing themselves in the old, forbidden way. Queen Eloise stood, not bothering to mask the tremor in her hands. She moved around the table, descending the three steps of the dais with a dancer’s balance.

“Speak clearly, Mage,” she said. “What do they want? What is their aim?”