Night was slowly falling over Chronos, royal capital of the continent. The sky, still streaked with orange hues, bathed the slate roofs and golden cobblestones in a warm light. The streets buzzed with activity: artisans packed up their goods, children darted through alleys, and voices drifted from taverns where lanterns were starting to light up one by one.
Everywhere, people spoke of only one thing: the rise of a new Calamity. Feverish whispers, wild theories, and drunks already swearing they could defeat it alone.
But within the castle walls, far from the cheer, a very different mood reigned.
In a circular room lined with blue carpets and pale gold walls, a large table of white wood welcomed those known as the Fundaments of the royal authority.
The Fundament of Exploration, Zerak Argor, also known as The Pathfinder of Worlds, was quietly sipping a spiced wine. He was as he always was: a man with a slender figure, almost too sharply defined to be natural. His black, curly hair looked styled by the wind, just like his carefully trimmed mustache. His violet eyes, framed by silver spectacles, scanned the room with polite curiosity. His light armor — aged gold over deep violet — hugged his body without hindering movement.
He set down his glass and said with a weary tone:
"When do we start ? I'm tired of waiting."
Beside him, feet on the table, leaned back in her chair, the Fundament of attack, Riyo Teonara, also called The Crimson Reaper, grumbled loudly:
"He's late again. And you all say nothing, as usual."
She never went unnoticed: tall, muscular, clad in light golden armor that screamed war. Beneath it, a dark red cloth hugged her torso. Her stomach, deliberately left bare, bore a long scar — a brutal reminder of past battles. Her abs, stone-hard beneath her skin, spoke of years of harsh training. Her blood-red, messy cropped hair clashed with her eerie green eyes, which sparked with contempt. Her smile, as always, had no warmth to it.
An empty chair stood to her right — imposing, almost provocative in its vacancy.
Next came Velina Rossi, The Grey Hand, Fundament of Espionage. She sat straight and still, like carved from silence. Draped in a dark blue, almost black robe — not elegant nor noble, but monastic, simple, and functional. Silver patterns along the sleeves pulsed faintly in the candlelight. Her pale, almost ghostly skin contrasted with the deep violet lipstick she wore with perfect precision. Her hair, long and ink-black, framed her face and flowed down her back. A carefully embroidered scarf, bearing a golden crown at its center, concealed her forehead and her eyes— only her nose and her violet lips were visible.
She spoke in a soft, melodic voice:
"Let's not jump to conclusions. Maybe this time, he has a good excuse."
King Elyndar Silmaris observed all in silence. Draped in a long white cape trimmed with gold, his dark blue tunic emphasized his slender frame. He said not a word. His crown glimmered gently beneath the chandeliers, and his piercing blue eyes quietly watched each guest in turn. He raised his glass calmly as a servant poured him more wine.
Other servants moved soundlessly around the table, refilling cups, straightening folds in the cloth, dimming the candles to create a softer, more intimate glow.
Then, the grand door of the council hall gave a slight groan, as if protesting the weight of the man approaching. All eyes turned to him.
"Sorry I'm late, friends," came a deep yet gentle voice — almost warm.
It was the Fundament of protection ,Valemir Luminus, The Silent Wall, and for good reason, he was gigantic man, nearing two and a half meters tall, with the build of a titan. Each step made the floor hum, as if a mountain had decided to walk among men. He unstrapped a massive shield from his back — nearly as wide as a door — and leaned it against the entrance with a dull thud that hushed a few murmurs.
His body, massive and broad, wasn't just a fortress of muscle. He was a living wall, shaped to endure the impossible. His strong-fat build wasn't meant to impress — it simply was. A force of nature radiating calm and safety, like a human bastion.
His face, however, was surprisingly gentle. Lit by a sincere and calm smile. No arrogance. No sarcasm. Just quiet peace, like an old oak in a storm. Bald at the top of his head, his remaining brown hair formed a neat ring — a natural crown, subtle yet oddly symbolic.
His heavy armor, forged in dark metal, was traced with dull golden lines along the shoulders, arms, and chest. Nothing flashy. No decoration for show — armor made to hold, not to shine. It enhanced his weight, his silent authority.
He made his way to the round table and sat down. Folding his arms, he nodded at the king, then at the others.
Then he exhaled gently, as if returning from a long journey.
"We can begin now."