Location: Tashlan – Underground Caverns | Year 8002 A.A.
Beneath the alabaster brilliance of Carlon's proud capital—beneath its towers that glittered like ivory lances against the sky, beneath the domes where sunlight painted mosaics in gold and blue—there lay another world.
Few who walked the marbled avenues above ever wondered what seethed beneath their feet. And fewer still would have dared to descend if they knew. For down there, past dripping stairways and tunnels carved by forgotten hands, stretched the caverns of Tashlan: a kingdom of shadow, silence, and slow-breathing dread.
The stone here was not dead. It bore the marks of ages—ancient grooves, runes long ago cut by claws or chisels, inscriptions so worn and water-eaten they were little more than ghosts of meaning. Moss and mildew clung to the walls in dark green veils, drinking what little life the caverns gave.
And light, when it came, was no friend to warmth. Green flames guttered in iron sconces hammered straight into the damp stone, each torch hissing as though alive. The flames burned without smoke of their own, yet the air was thick with it—smoke from censers that hung like blackened fruit from chains above, their fumes bitter, metallic, stinging the nose. One inhaled it as one swallowed bitterness: unwillingly, but without escape.
In the largest of these chambers—so wide the ceiling vanished into unseen dark—shadows stretched in a half-circle. Cloaked figures filled the space, each heavy with presence. Boars with tusks dulled by rust or sharpened to glittering knives. Serpents wound upon themselves in coils of stillness, scales flashing dully when the torchlight found them. Unlikely Beasts never seen in Narn, their paws and hooves scuffing faintly against the damp floor as if they could not bear to be still, though none dared break the silence with speech.
They were waiting.
And waiting sharpened them. Each moment stretched tight, nerves thrumming like bowstrings, because their eyes were fixed on the throne that rose at the chamber's heart.
A throne of black obsidian and bone.
It loomed there as though it had not been made, but rather birthed from the cavern itself—sharp angles, jagged as if claws had torn it out of the living rock. Bones, real and unyielding, were set into its arms and crown: ribs of some long-slain beast, perhaps, or something older still. The light of the green fire found those bones, and in its glare they seemed wet, as though the marrow within had never quite dried.
Upon that throne sat Prince Erezhan.
He was young still—young, at least, in the reckoning of Tracients. His shoulders did not yet bear the breadth of his father, the Trisoc, nor had the years thickened his voice into that deep growl that rolled like thunder through councils of war. Yet there was no mistaking the shadow of the sire in the son.
His body was lean, but lean the way a blade is lean: honed to purpose. His robes were crimson, a color that drank the green fire and made it seem almost black, and the fabric fell about him in careful folds. Nothing about him was careless. Not the tilt of his shoulders, not the drape of his hands upon the throne's arms, not the line of his tusks.
Those tusks gleamed cruelly in the light, plated in red-gold hammered so fine that the metal seemed liquid. Each curve caught the flicker of torch-flame and threw it back with sharp brilliance. And above them, his eyes burned.
Not with the wild fire of youth. Not with the thoughtless temper that so many of his kind mistook for power. No—his eyes burned with cold, contained fury. Fury caged, studied, sharpened until it was no longer a blaze but a blade.
'He looks more his father than he knows,' thought one of the cloaked boars, though he did not dare breathe it aloud. More his father… and perhaps more dangerous still.
Erezhan's fingers drummed against the throne's armrest.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythm was deliberate, precise. Not restless—it was too measured for that. Each beat seemed to echo, as though striking not stone but the cavern's very heart.
And though his posture seemed almost relaxed, it carried the tautness of a hunter crouched low in grass, waiting for the moment when stillness breaks and the kill begins.
The gathered Tracients did not move. They scarcely breathed. For in that dim chamber, beneath the weight of rock and silence, they knew this truth well: the prince upon the throne was not merely waiting. He was watching.
And one by one, though none would ever confess it, they began to feel as though they were the prey.
"Earlier today," Prince Erezhan began.
The words were quiet, almost measured, yet they seemed to slip through the cavern like frost sliding across a windowpane. Every Tracient present felt it—the way a soft-spoken truth can cut more sharply than a roar. The green flames in the sconces crackled faintly, as though leaning closer to listen.
"A tremor cracked the bones of Carlon."
The drumming of his fingers upon the throne's arm ceased. That silence was heavier than the sound had been, for now nothing bridged the distance between the prince and his council. The absence was deliberate, like a door closed with great care so that its weight might be all the more felt.
"It was no accident," he continued, his red gaze burning brighter with each word. "Nor the whim of the mountain. This was deliberate. Clean. The work of power—not random, but wielded with precision."
A ripple passed through the circle of cloaked Tracients. None dared speak, but the air carried their unease. Tails shifted, claws flexed, tusks caught the greenish light. One serpent hissed low in its throat, then stilled again.
Erezhan rose.
The motion was slow, deliberate, and for that reason more terrible than any sudden eruption. His robes of crimson flowed downward, the obsidian throne behind him seeming to fold back into the shadows as he stepped into the ring of green firelight. He stood taller than many of them remembered; the years had been sharpening him in secret, like a blade hidden in its scabbard until the right season.
His eyes swept the assembly. One by one, each cloaked figure bowed its head lower, as though the gaze itself demanded submission. And in truth, it did. Each pause of his eyes was a weight, a judgment unspoken but felt in the marrow. The beasts shifted on their paws and hooves, but none dared to lift their eyes.
At last, he spoke again.
"In the midland caves, my lieutenants engaged the Ronins." His tone was unbending, but not raised. Calm—always calm. "And failed."
The word failed fell with the quiet weight of a stone dropped into a deep well, the ripples of its impact unseen but undeniable.
The silence that followed grew thick, heavy as fog that chokes the lungs. Only the hissing torches dared fill it, as if fire itself had grown uneasy in its brackets.
Then, from the half-circle, a figure stepped forward.
Baraz.
The rhinoceros Tracient did not move with his old might. Once he had carried himself as if he were the mountain's son—unyielding, vast, his hooves shaking the earth with confidence. Now, though his frame was no less colossal, something in him had been hollowed. His shoulders sagged with invisible burden, his steps were uneven, and pain clung to him like a second skin.
His horn, once a polished spear of pride, bore a jagged fracture blackened from base to tip, as though fire had gnawed its way through. Purple burn scars marred the flesh of his arm, twisting downward until they vanished into his hoof. He breathed in ragged bursts, each one a reminder of weakness, of mortality.
When he bowed, lowering his massive head before the prince, there was no longer defiance in the motion. His tusks caught the green light, but they seemed duller than before.
"Forgive me, my prince," Baraz rasped. His voice was gravel dragged across stone, hoarse and broken. "They were not what we expected."
For a long moment, Erezhan did not answer. The silence pressed harder, until those gathered began to wonder if he would let the broken warrior crumble there without a word.
At last, the prince spoke. His voice was still soft, but it cut. "Explain."
Baraz swallowed. The movement itself looked painful, as if even his throat resisted bearing the weight of failure. His eyes flickered once toward the circle of peers, then back to the floor. He dared not meet Erezhan's gaze.
"Sahira tried to take the Wolf's mind," he said. "Adam Kurt. But…"
His voice faltered, then steadied again with effort. "…he broke her. Burned out her third eye. Made her Mad. Her mind… is lost. She lives, but she will never speak, never command again."
A shiver ran through the assembly. Not all of them made sound, but the air itself seemed to stir with unease. A low murmur, restrained and fearful, escaped a few throats despite their attempts at silence. A serpent flicked its tongue, tasting the bitterness of disbelief. Somewhere to the left, claws scraped faintly on stone as another shifted, restless.
The name of Sahira had carried weight—an authority among them, a commander of minds as well as armies. And now? Broken. Reduced to a husk.
Erezhan's face did not change. If there was disappointment, it did not reveal itself in so simple a manner as frown or glare. His expression was unreadable marble. Only his eyes narrowed faintly, red light catching sharp against the shadow.
"Kurtcan." The name was spoken not as a question, but as a truth already known. It tasted of history when he spoke it, older than his reign, older perhaps than even his father's.
Baraz, wounded though he was, nodded once. It was a slow movement, heavy as though every muscle in his neck resisted. "And Kon and Kopa…" His chest rose and fell, pain flashing across his scarred face. "…they are not what rumor paints them to be. They are Hazël, yes—but stronger. Tempered by survival."
He paused, then added with the weight of shame: "And they spared me, my prince. They could have killed me… but they did not."
For the first time, something flickered in Erezhan's gaze. It was gone almost before it could be named—contempt, perhaps, or disappointment, or something colder still. A shadow that might have been disdain, or a thought unspoken but sharp.
The green flames hissed. The cavern seemed to draw in a breath and hold it.
Erezhan's tusks caught the light as he tilted his head, the faintest glint of red-gold reflecting.
"I am not angered by defeat," Erezhan said softly.
The words did not rush. They did not stumble. Each syllable landed with a weight disproportionate to its gentleness, deliberate as stones placed carefully one upon another. And in the cavern, among warriors and predators accustomed to roars and thunder, this quietness was more terrifying than fury.
"Only," he continued, "by failure to learn."
The torches hissed faintly. Drops of water fell somewhere deep within the cavern's hollows, their rhythm lost beneath the stillness that followed his words. No one dared breathe too loudly.
Baraz, wounded and broken though he was, dared at last to raise his head. His good eye—rimmed red with pain and shame—searched the prince's face for meaning. He had expected rage, condemnation, the stripping of honor. But this? This measured calm, this refusal to give anger where it was expected—it unsettled him more deeply than any blow could have.
"My prince…?" His voice cracked. The word was half-question, half-plea, as though he could not quite believe what he had heard.
Erezhan did not look at him. Instead, he turned with deliberate grace, his crimson cloak brushing against the damp stone, catching briefly in the green firelight before folding into shadow once more. His tusks glinted faintly as he faced the circle of Tracients, and when his gaze lifted, the whole assembly felt it pierce them like spears.
"If brute strength fails," he said, his voice still soft, still controlled, "then precision shall answer."
The sentence hung in the stale air. A serpent's coils tightened faintly in the shadows; a boar's tusks gleamed as its jaw clenched. They understood what he meant, though none dared to speak it aloud. He was not discarding might—he was reshaping it.
"The Ronins will expect fury," Erezhan continued. His eyes swept over them, glimmering red in the torchlight, each pause a calculated act of dominion. "Rashness. The unthinking lash of beasts wounded in their pride. We will give them neither."
He stopped there, and the pause was not empty. It was intentional, a silence cultivated so that every mind in the chamber would fill it with their own unease. They waited, ears straining, hearts heavy.
The torchlight flickered across his tusks as he shifted, the faintest motion commanding all attention. His cloak fell around him like a tide of blood in the green firelight.
"We will wait," he said at last. The word wait carried an iron weight. Not passive, not hesitant—calculated. "And when they come—because they must—they will find us waiting."
It was not only a statement of strategy, but of certainty. He spoke not as one who hoped they might come, but as one who knew it with a cold inevitability, as though time itself had already whispered the truth to him.
The Tracients stirred faintly. One serpent's tongue flickered nervously. Another Rhino beast lowered its head further, shoulders hunched against the pressure of his words. Even Baraz, for all his brokenness, felt his heart pound harder, not in defiance but in the eerie realization that Erezhan had already leapt far beyond them in thought.
The prince let the weight of inevitability settle. Then, almost gently, he added:
"But in the meantime…"
His tusks caught the light once more as his eyes narrowed. The stillness deepened. Every Tracient in the cavern leaned imperceptibly forward, straining toward the words they knew would follow.
"…I think I know a way," he said, voice quiet as a knife sliding free from its sheath, "to catch their attention."
______________________________________
Location: True Kürdiala – Grand Hall
Far from Tashlan's depths, beyond the furnace of sunburnt dunes and the sheer faces of sandstone cliffs, hidden in a valley the size of a country, completely hidden by Mist, there rose a city that was itself a contradiction. True Kürdiala was a crown set upon the desert's brow—or rather, beneath it—its towers not carved by rivers or valleys, but by will, stone stacked upon stone until the wasteland bent to its vision.
To the eye of the traveler, it seemed an oasis, born of stubborn hope and the unbroken determination of its people. Fueled with beautiful technological advancements, Its streets gleamed white beneath the moonlight, the air thick with incense and the hum of merchants. The walls, bathed in gold, gave the illusion of peace and permanence.
At the western edge of the Capital's heart, built upon older foundations than the Nation itself, lay the Grand Hall. It was not modern. No steel rafters or mechanized doors marred its structure. Instead, it bore the old world's memory—arched ceilings that soared like the vault of heaven, warm sandstone walls etched with tapestries older than the city, and carved columns rising with solemn strength, each bearing marks of generations who had laid their trust upon them. Iron chains, long as serpents, descended from those lofty arches, holding lanterns that swayed faintly in the desert drafts. They burned with golden fire, their light gentle and human in its warmth, as though resisting the harsh white blaze of the desert sun.
Tonight, the hall was alive.
The banquet's breath filled the chamber: the scent of fire-grilled meats, lamb brushed with herbs that only grew in the northern wadis, smoke kissed flatbreads, and the sweetness of honeyed dates. Spiced wine ran like ruby flame into goblets of polished bronze, their rims warm to the touch. Steam curled upward from bowls of roasted grains and pomegranate-strewn platters, mingling with the tang of charred figs and apricots.
There was music too, light and insistent, strings and flutes weaving a tapestry of sound that seemed almost fragile in the vast hall. Laughter leapt like sparks, bounding off the arches and mingling with the clink of goblets. Children of nobility ran between the tables, chased by indulgent attendants; warriors shared boasts across benches, their voices loud with pride but soft with relief.
For a fleeting moment, war felt far beyond the walls.
Indeed, there was a sense that the desert itself had consented to rest. That the storms and shadows gathering across the mountains had chosen, for this night at least, to spare them. And the people clung to that sense. They drank deeply, they laughed loudly, they spoke of trade, of marriages, of hunts.
At the high table, Adam Kurt sat silent.
Blindfolded as ever, yet there was a softness about him tonight that those who knew him best had not seen in weeks. The rigid line of his shoulders had eased, the stiffness of battle unwound, as though the weight of the cavern fights had been set aside for a brief reprieve. His robe, dyed in the deep greenish-blue of twilight seas, bore sigils embroidered in thread so fine that the lantern light played across them like water over hidden stones. They shimmered faintly, not with magic, but with the quiet beauty of craft, each symbol telling a story in its patient stitches.
His paws rested lightly on the carved cedar table, fingers uncurling and curling again in an unconscious rhythm, not unlike the slow beating of a heart. Around him, the hall rang with laughter and the clamor of feasting, yet Adam seemed to sit slightly apart from it all—not distant, but contemplative, like one who listens more deeply than he speaks.
To Adam's right, Trevor Maymum was neither silent nor contemplative. The monkey Tracient had been loud since the moment he sat down, his wiry frame leaning across the table, tail twitching in indignation as he argued with Jeth Fare.
"I was sprinting," Trevor insisted, voice rising with the indignation of one grossly misunderstood. He shoved his spectacles higher on his nose with a sharp flick of his paw. "There's a difference between a tactical retreat and—"
"Retreat?!" Jeth barked before he could finish. The rat's whiskers bristled like taut strings, his sharp teeth flashing as his tail smacked the bench. "You squealed like a kit with a thorn in its tail! Even the rocks were laughing at you!"
The table broke into laughter—loud, easy, and unforced. Even a few of the nobles seated further down glanced over, smiling despite themselves at the bickering of the Ronins. Trevor spluttered, his fur standing on end. He jabbed a finger at Jeth with all the dignity he could muster.
"That is slander. Rocks cannot laugh. They are inanimate objects bound by the laws of physics—"
"And yet," Jeth cut in with mock solemnity, "they found a way, when you ran."
Trevor threw up his paws, muttering about the intellectual poverty of rodents, while Jeth leaned back with a grin, enjoying every flicker of indignation he provoked. The laughter spilled outward, lightening the hall, and for a moment, even the shadows seemed thinner.
Adam tilted his head slightly in their direction, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth. He said nothing, but the quiet curve of his lips was enough. For him, the sound of such quarrels was not irritation but comfort—proof that life, for all its dangers, could still be ordinary, even foolish, even funny.
To Adam's left sat Kon Kaplan. Where Trevor and Jeth filled the air with noise, Kon gave nothing but silence. His arms were folded across his chest, the fur along his shoulders dusted gold in the lantern light. The scars along his muzzle and brow were stark lines, reminders of battles past, yet his golden eye softened their harshness. It swept the hall—not suspiciously, not searching for enemies in every shadow, but watchfully, like a guardian who has learned that safety is not the absence of danger, but the presence of vigilance.
For once, Kon was not rigid. His jaw, though still firm, carried no iron edge. His body, though upright, did not hum with coiled readiness. He leaned back, breathing slow, drinking in the laughter and warmth like a man willing himself to believe in the peace of the moment.
Further down the table, Kopa Boga sat beside Darius, the great bull whose breadth seemed to steady everyone around him. Darius did not laugh loudly, nor argue, nor boast. His presence was enough—solid, unshakable, the kind of strength that asked for no notice yet drew every eye when needed. His quiet words, though few, seemed to ground the air around him.
Kopa leaned slightly toward that strength, almost unconsciously. His antlers glinted beneath the lantern light, freshly polished by a servant's hand, though one tine still bore the faint crack from their last battle. He flexed his newly healed arm beneath the table, rolling the muscles slowly, feeling the weight of life return where once there had been stone. The pallor of petrification had faded, but the memory of its heaviness had not. He could still feel it, phantom-like, as though some part of his body remembered what his flesh had forgotten.
Yet the pain was gone. In its place, relief. Gratitude. Even awe at the simple act of flexing fingers once again. He stared at his hand as though it were something newly given, something undeserved.
Darius glanced at him once, noting the quiet wonder in Kopa's eyes, and said nothing. He merely lifted his goblet and offered it across the table in silent acknowledgment. Kopa accepted it, his lips twitching into a shy smile.
Around them, the hall roared on—music swelling, servants bustling, laughter rising. But at the high table, there was a rhythm of its own: silence and noise, watchfulness and laughter, weariness and relief.
"It's nice," Adam murmured, voice so low it might have been mistaken for breath.
Yet Kon heard.
The tiger turned slightly, golden eye steady on the blindfolded wolf beside him. In the middle of a hall filled with laughter and music, Adam's words felt almost fragile—like a secret carried between brothers. Kon let the sound settle, allowed himself a heartbeat to believe in its simplicity, and then the corner of his muzzle twitched upward.
"Yeah," he said, voice low, roughened with quiet sincerity. "It is."
But the smile faltered almost as soon as it came. A pause lingered between them—weighty, unfinished. Kon's jaw worked once, his claws flexing faintly against his folded arms. He hesitated, then began, "Adam, I—"
He never finished.
Adam's paw lifted, resting lightly on Kon's forearm. It was not firm, not demanding, only there—present, warm, deliberate. And in that simple contact was more than a dozen speeches could have carried.
"No, Kon," Adam said gently. His voice carried none of the commanding sharpness it often bore in battle. It was quieter, unarmored, the kind of voice one uses when confessing truth to a friend who already knows. "Don't apologize. I turned away. I pushed you all aside. You stood by me… even when I buried everything under guilt."
His paw squeezed lightly, then withdrew, the gesture fleeting as falling snow.
"I failed you," Adam murmured. "Not the other way around."
The words broke something within Kon—not like stone shattering under force, but like a lock undone. His breath caught. He felt the weight of years—the bitterness, the anger, the wounded pride—shift suddenly, as though the ground beneath it had been removed. His paw trembled faintly against the table, and he swallowed hard.
Adam leaned closer, blindfold dipping until their foreheads touched. The contact was brief, yet solemn as prayer, the kind of gesture carved into memory more deeply than words.
"Forgive me, brother," Adam whispered.
Kon closed his eye, a rough sound rattling in his throat. It wasn't quite a sob, but neither was it laughter, though both were present in its trembling. He let out a short laugh, cracked and raw, and felt the wetness at the edge of his eye. A tear slipped free, trailing down his fur as though it had been waiting all this time.
"Always," he said.
It was the only word that could bear the weight of everything else—the years of silence, the shared scars, the trust that no bitterness had ever truly buried.
For a heartbeat, the hall seemed quieter. The laughter and music around them faded into something distant, muffled, like echoes of a memory. In that suspended silence, there was only them—two brothers, fractured but unbroken, finding one another again in the midst of feasting and flame.
The moment lingered, then passed, woven back into the rhythm of the hall. Yet for both Adam and Kon, it remained—etched into the marrow of the night.
At the end of the high table, a chair scraped gently against the stone. Azubuike Toran rose, his tall frame cutting against the light. The panther king's fur, dark as midnight yet brushed with streaks of white, caught the golden lantern glow until it seemed silver-edged. His indigo eyes, bright and discerning, swept the hall.
He raised a goblet of gold, its rim glinting like a sun-crowned horizon. His voice, when it came, rolled through the vaulted chamber with the strength of a lion's roar tempered by the wisdom of years.
"To brighter days!" Azubuike declared, the timbre of his words warm, steady, commanding.
The chatter and laughter stilled as though hushed by an unseen hand. All eyes turned to him. Even the torches seemed to bend their flame toward his voice.
"For Kürdiala," he said, pausing to let the syllables breathe, weighty and sure.
The crowd echoed, "Kürdiala!"
"For ArchenLand," Azubuike continued, and his paw swept outward, as if to encompass not only the desert kingdom but the bonds stretching beyond its walls.
"ArchenLand!" the hall replied.
"For Narn—"
"Narn!"
His gaze sharpened, flaring with a fire that burned deeper than feast or cheer. His final words rose higher, filling every arch, pressing into the stone itself.
"—and for Asalan!"
The cry came as one, rising like a single voice from a thousand throats, goblets lifted high, claws and hooves raised, antlers gleaming, wings brushing the air.
"FOR ASALAN!"
The words rolled like thunder beneath the vaulted ceiling, echoing through carved columns and embroidered tapestries. It was not just a toast—it was a vow. A declaration that beneath all division, all kingdoms, all battles yet to come, they belonged to something greater.
Adam felt it strike through him—not as noise, but as resonance. He heard in it the weight of promise, the echo of sacrifice, the call of destiny he had not chosen but could not refuse. He bowed his head slightly, lips parting in silent assent.
Beside him, Kon lifted his goblet, golden eye gleaming through the moisture still clinging at its edge. Trevor banged his paw on the table, shouting louder than the rest, while Jeth added a sharp whistle that cut cleanly through the roar. Kopa raised his antlers high, the motion proud, steady, redeemed. And Darius, ever silent, lifted his goblet with a quiet nod that carried more than most speeches.
_________________________________
Moments later, the heavy doors of the Grand Hall groaned open. Iron hinges protested against centuries of use, their shrill scrape silencing music mid-note. All eyes turned as a single figure strode through the threshold, the golden light from the lanterns falling upon him in long shadows.
Ekene Çelik.
The leopard's cloak was still powdered with desert dust, and the crimson sash wound about his waist seemed less ornament than a banner of urgency. His paws moved lightly across the stone floor, yet there was no ease in his step—only purpose, sharp and deliberate, as though every stride carried the weight of an unsheathed blade.
At the high table, Azubuike Toran turned, his eyes narrowing, voice even, calm as the stillness before a storm.
"Viceroy?"
Ekene bowed deeply, paw pressed to his chest in the manner of Kürdiala's oath.
"My King. Urgent news."
The warmth of the hall—the laughter, the music, the glow of golden goblets—froze in an instant. Conversation died away, replaced by the rustle of cloaks, the faint shifting of hooves and claws. It was as if the whole feast drew breath at once and then refused to release it.
Ekene's words came swift, sharp as spearheads.
"Our traders and ambassadors in Carlon have been arrested. Prince Erezhan accuses them of treason and interference. Their homes were raided. Their goods seized."
The sound was not loud, but it traveled through the hall like a ripple through dry grass. Murmurs rose, muted but tense. Faces that had moments ago beamed with mirth now drew tight with fear or hardened with fury.
Trevor Maymum was the first to break. The monkey leaned forward, spectacles catching the lantern-light, voice rising with indignation.
"They've broken no law! This is absurd!"
Jeth slammed a paw against the cedar table, rattling goblets. His whiskers bristled, eyes flashing.
"Obvious bait. He's daring us to answer with force."
At the other end, Darius shifted in his seat, the bull's massive frame unyielding even as his voice came low, controlled, heavy as rolling thunder.
"Hostages. A reason to paint Kürdiala as the aggressor should we actually with haste."
Kopa Boga's antlers dipped slightly, his voice quieter, thoughtful, though edged with dread.
"He wants us to strike first… so Carlon can claim innocence."
Around the table, whispers rose into a swell, words tumbling against one another—fear, anger, outrage.
Yet Adam sat still.
The blindfold covered his eyes, but the stillness of his body spoke louder than any voice. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest betrayed life beneath the robe, each breath measured as if counting, weighing, aligning the pieces unseen by the rest.
Finally, his voice came, low, steady, certain.
"He's setting the board for war."
The words settled like ash.
Toran, who had not spoken since Ekene's first declaration, lowered his gaze to the goblet before him. The wine within was dark, almost black in the shifting light, and though his paw remained steady, the surface trembled faintly. For a long moment, he seemed to study it—not the drink itself, but something deeper, as if the swirling depths reflected not wine but visions of roads yet unwalked, battles yet fought.
His voice, when it came, was almost a murmur.
"Prince Erezhan learns… but not quickly enough."
The words hung in the hall, half-puzzle, half-condemnation. Then, slowly, Azubuike Toran rose. His robes hushed across the stone, the sound soft yet loud in the tense stillness.
When he spoke again, his voice had gathered strength. It no longer murmured but carried, rising to the furthest arches of the chamber.
"We do not answer fear with fear."
The silence in the hall deepened. His veyes swept the room—over the goblets still raised half-forgotten, over warriors and diplomats, over the Ronins seated at his high table. And when those eyes gleamed again, they held no mirth, only a fierce and tempered calm.
"If they wish to see us rage…" he said, pausing, the words coiling like a bowstring drawn tight.
"…we will show them resolve."
The vow rippled outward, steady and sure, not the roar of war drums but the grounding strength of earth itself. It was not the promise of reckless fire, but of stone—unyielding, immovable, resolute.
Kon stepped forward beside him, golden eye locked on the panther king. His voice, low but urgent, carried a soldier's clarity.
"What do we do?"
For a heartbeat, Toran looked at them both—the blindfolded wolf and the scarred tiger, each scarred yet unbowed, each bearing in their posture a readiness carved by fire and trial. Then, the king's lips curved—not into mirth, but into something thinner, edged with iron.
"What do we do?" Toran repeated softly, as though tasting the question himself. His violet gaze sharpened, a glint of steel within its glow.
"We will pay Carlon a visit."