Golden strands of warm sunlight filtered through the grand stained-glass windows, falling gently across a long, rectangular stone table set at the heart of a beautifully adorned chamber.
Chairs lined either side of the table, each crafted with care—though one seat stood apart at its head, more ornate than the rest, regal in both design and placement.
Seated in silence were four elegant women, dressed in refined garments befitting a formal assembly.
Each represented one of the great noble families—except the fourth, who spoke on behalf of the **Church**.
Despite the generally harmonious relationship between the noble houses and the Church—marked by cooperation and mutual respect—none of the women spoke beyond an initial polite greeting.
Each was silently calculating, sorting through the information she carried—what should be shared, and what must remain concealed.
And yet, the air was not tense. It was calm, composed, measured.
This meeting had been established by **King Adam** himself—a scheduled summit, held once every two months unless pressing matters demanded an earlier call. The gathering brought together the four lords and the Church's high representative, **Saint Cassian**.
Its primary purpose wasn't merely to exchange reports or intelligence.
Rather, the king had designed it as a way to **preserve unity**—to maintain a long-term alliance, a common purpose among the Five Pillars of the kingdom.
It was, by intention, an informal and cordial meeting.
But this time... something had changed.
None of the family heads or the Saint had come in person.
Instead, **each had sent a representative**, signaling a troubling shift—perhaps even a crisis.
For five long minutes, silence hung like velvet.
Then—**the door creaked open.**
The air shifted. It thickened—sharpened like the edge of a blade, as though the chamber itself was bracing for the entrance of **someone formidable**.
A man stepped into the hall with steady, assured steps.
Each one carried weight—commanding presence, undeniable authority.
He wore a tailored silver jacket, embroidered with precision to fit his broad shoulders and the battle-hardened muscles forged through endless war.
Matching trousers and boots completed the look—elegant, yet martial.
A short black beard framed his stern mouth, connected seamlessly to a dark, neatly trimmed mustache.
His wide, piercing **brown eyes** radiated power and clarity—unmistakably those of a commander.
A faint scar ran beneath his right eye, while his cloak draped over one shoulder with effortless nobility.
His left arm was missing—a limb lost in the crucible of battle—but his towering frame and the aura of discipline he carried made it clear: this man had not weakened. He had only grown stronger.
He came to a stop near the head of the table.
**All four women rose in unison**, each placing a hand over her chest and bowing respectfully.
**"We greet Lord Harbard."**
This was no ordinary noble.
He was **the First Commander**, the supreme head of the most powerful of the Four Houses—**Lord Harbard of the House of the Sword**.
A man of the **Fifth Stage**, known across the continent as *The Iron Man*... and *The Warlord*.
To stand in his presence demanded respect—not by request, but by the very gravity of his existence.
Harbard scanned the four women with a slow, deliberate gaze.
Then he spoke—his voice carrying a surprising hint of dry irritation, at odds with his fearsome appearance.
**"So I'm the only one who showed up in person. Makes me feel like some idle old man compared to the other five."**
One of the women smiled faintly.
She wore a flowing gown of golden yellow, embroidered with care, draping elegantly across her figure to enhance her natural allure.
Her skin was a smooth ivory, her eyes a wide, honey-gold. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of pure sunlight.
She spoke, voice graceful and laced with playful diplomacy:
**"Of course not, Lord Harbard. Your personal presence merely highlights your strength and intelligence, my lord—especially with all the burdens currently weighing on the Sword Family in the Eastern District."**
Harbard gave a sharp smile, sensing the subtle sting behind her flattery.
**"Those are Guijuan's words, aren't they? That cheeky woman's taught you well in the art of wordplay."**
The representative of **House Qian** smiled with a sparkle in her eye.
**"Thank you for the compliment, Uncle Harbard.
As for Mother—she sends her apologies. She's currently occupied deep in the Red Desert to the south."**
Harbard nodded, accepting the explanation with a quiet grunt.
And with that, the air in the chamber softened, returned to normal.
At a simple wave of his remaining hand, all five took their seats.
He looked around at the women once more—each one poised, calculated in every move, adorned for diplomacy.
Then, with a tone warmer than before—yet no less deliberate—he asked:
**"How are the other lords… and the Saint? I've heard nothing from them in some time.
I understand now that my house isn't the only one that's been struck by a sudden storm of misfortune…"**
The representative of the Church sat with poised dignity.
She wore the flowing garb of a high-ranking nun—white and black fabrics that gently traced the curves of her form, elegant yet chaste. Her black hair was tied into a neat bun behind her head, revealing a face both serene and striking, framed by deep, obsidian eyes.
Leather gloves extended to her elbows, enhancing the sense of sanctity and reverence she carried.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was soft and respectful:
**"He is well, my lord. His Grace, the Priest, and his sons too, are faring admirably.
Though, as always, he seldom stops to rest. Especially the Priest—he returns from the Dead Zone no more than once or twice a month."**
Lord Harbard scratched his beard, his expression thoughtful.
**"I understand. But that old man… he's shattered every ancient doctrine in the book.
Never, in all my reading or hearing, have I known a Priest to marry—let alone father three children.
Haaah… truly, a first of its kind."**
The Church's envoy offered a radiant smile.
**"To be a priest is to draw closer to the Divine, not to retreat from the beauty of life,"** she said gently.
**"That's what His Grace has always said.
And I believe, for him, his wife and children are the very essence of that beauty, Lord Harbard.
He often encourages marriage wherever he goes—as if he were everyone's father…"**
Harbard gave a soft sigh.
**"Well… he's not entirely wrong.
All of us are married.
All of us have tasted the joy of love—and the wonder of the children."**
Then, with a half-smile, he turned his gaze toward her.
**"Tell me,... I have a nephew about the right age.
Would you consider saving him from his solitude?"**
The priestess paused.
All three other women turned to her, watching closely—awaiting her answer.
This wasn't a light-hearted jest.
His offer—however casually phrased—carried the weight of **honor**.
To marry into the **House of the Sword** meant unimaginable privilege. Power. Legacy.
It was an offer that would make many noblewomen salivate at the mere thought.
After a moment of composed reflection, the priestess replied, her tone balanced and calm:
**"If this proposal carries no political motive, my lord... then I would prefer to meet him first—before giving my answer, if that is acceptable to you."**
Lord Harbard gave a lazy wave of acknowledgment.
**"Clever, indeed.
But no—marriage is no longer a political tool in this age.
Only a fool forces his Awakened son to marry a stranger. That path leads to nothing but disaster."**
The young women around him looked at him with admiration in their eyes.
As **Awakened** themselves, they understood the weight of his words.
Emotion in an Awakened being wasn't a passing storm—it was a **tempest**.
For an ordinary person, losing control of their feelings might lead to nothing more than angry words or a broken object.
But an Awakened—**even a mere Second Stage**—could, in a moment of uncontrolled passion, leave behind carnage and ruin.
Thus, Awakened were treated differently.
And a statement from a man like Lord Harbard carried **immeasurable weight**.
What followed was a series of casual conversations.
The five exchanged advice, each seeking guidance or perspective from the **Iron Lord**.
Though they were all heirs of great houses, only a fool would let such a rare opportunity pass unanswered.
The representatives of **House Deep** and **House Thryon** in particular were notably sharp, steering the conversation with skill and subtlety despite their stern and reserved expressions.
Then, after some twenty minutes—the door opened once more.
This time, **no shift in air**, no looming presence, no weighty pressure like when Lord Harbard had entered.
And yet—all five stood.
Straight-backed, one hand to their chest, the other behind their back, they bowed in solemn respect.
Through the doorway entered a woman of breathtaking presence.
She wore a sky-blue gown of fine silk that flowed down her form like water.
Even her hands were gloved in matching leather.
Her hair was smooth and black as ink, cascading over her shoulders in delicate waves.
Her eyes were the color of the tranquil sea—clear, calm, and profound.
And upon her brow sat a crown—elegant, understated, yet radiating a quiet **sovereignty**.
She moved with calm determination.
Each step measured, purposeful—**a queen** in every sense of the word.
She was not just the Queen.
She was the **consort of the most powerful living man—Adam**.
Without a word, she took her place at the ornately crafted seat at the head of the table.
**"We greet the Queen."**
She raised her hand ever so slightly.
And in silence, the five returned to their seats.
The once warm and casual atmosphere melted away, replaced by formality and focused attention.
The curtain was about to rise—on whatever grave news had summoned them here.