"We do not fear you," the Kalandir general declared. "Even if you could kill us, there are enough of us here to overwhelm you with ease."
"But that's where you're wrong, general. I am not here alone," Qualtagh said.
With a single motion, his hand raised high, the crystal platform behind him shimmered to life again.
Figures began to materialize: warriors in pale armor, their faces hidden behind helms etched in Qualtagh's likeness, eerily reminiscent of the Irath designs.
"I did not come unprepared," he said, his voice slicing through the murmurs. "Since the day she died, I have been crafting this moment. My reach stretches far beyond this valley. In every elven kingdom, every clan, every tribe, among the councilors, among the servants, I have eyes. I have ears. I have power."
He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the charged air.
"And for those thinking to resist me," he continued, "understand this: I have placed artifacts, devices of immense ruin, immune to magical and physical defenses, throughout this gathering. If triggered, they will bring devastation. You will not survive. The Kalandir will, but—" he addressed the Kalandir council, "the unity you prize and your queen prized will be shattered. War will be inevitable."
An even heavier silence fell.
"Is this what the Irath meant by executing their plans?" Vell wondered inwardly. "Are they backing Qualtagh in this coup? For what purpose? The queen's corpse? To twist her flesh, like they did to the humans in Sonder's village?"
Beside him, Sonder leaned in, whispering without turning her head, "What do we do?"
"Just be calm," he said. His eyes remained locked on Qualtagh. But his fingers curled slightly, and the shadows around his feet thickened, subtle, almost imperceptible. It wasn't action but preparation.
At last, the Lord Chancellor found his voice.
"Even if you were to be High King," he said, "this is nothing short of sacrilege. The High Queen has not yet been laid to rest, and you are her brother, yet you disturb the moment meant for her peace?"
Qualtagh offered a faint smile. "Time is the luxury of immortals. Urgency belongs to the wise."
A Kalandir priest stepped forward and pleaded. "If you know the truth of her death, then do not speak it here. Not now. For it could mean death for all of us."
"Oh, I could," Qualtagh said. "Truth is a wild thing. Unleashed, it could unravel everything. Drag the Kalandir from their long-held throne and cast them into a pit they cannot escape."
He cast his gaze across all the members of the council. "Death is a frightening thing, isn't it? But why should I speak the truth freely? Wouldn't it be better to let you tremble—unsure, guessing, fearing? I could withhold it forever. Or kill you one by one, without ever revealing how."
"Rather, so no one else can use it against you," Vell said quietly.
Though barely more than a whisper, Qualtagh heard him. His eyes found Vell across the hall. For a heartbeat, the crowd ceased to matter.
"Vellichor Dread Mage," he said, nodding once. "It would honor my sister that you would come to this occasion. I suspected you might."