The Council Hall of Valeryn was not a place for the faint-hearted.
It stretched like the ribcage of some colossal beast, vaulted arches curving upward into a ceiling painted with the legends of kings past—every panel depicting a moment of conquest or unification. Golden light streamed in through tall, stained-glass windows, bathing the polished obsidian floor in a kaleidoscope of red, gold, and azure. Between each window, banners of the great noble houses hung heavy, their sigils stitched in metallic thread. Each seemed to whisper its own claim to importance.
At the far end, on the High Dais, the King's Seat loomed—not merely a chair, but a throne carved from blackstone quarried in the heart of the northern mountains, its arms ending in the snarling heads of stone lions. The seat was cold to the touch, the way the throne room always was, despite the braziers lining the walls. A subtle chill that made one remember power in Valeryn was never warm, never safe.
Kaelen stood at the base of the dais, watching as the members of the High Council took their places at the curved table that encircled him like a half-moon. His coronation robes—dark crimson trimmed in gold—were heavy on his shoulders, and his ceremonial sword hung too still at his side. The steel had yet to see battle, a fact not lost on the nobles who eyed him with unreadable expressions.
The air in the hall was thick, not with smoke but with tension—the kind that pricked at the back of the neck and made one keenly aware of the weight of every gesture.
Lord Veylan entered first. He was a man in his fifties, his beard well-trimmed and streaked with silver, his robes made of silks imported from the southern spice ports. His hands glittered with rings—garnet, emerald, sapphire—each one a silent declaration of wealth. His eyes, however, were his true currency: sharp, assessing, always calculating the profit in every word spoken. Behind him trailed two attendants, one carrying scrolls, the other a ledger bound in black leather.
Lord Veylan's voice carried the polished warmth of a merchant greeting a valued client.
"Your Majesty," he said with a bow that was perfectly measured—deep enough to be respectful, shallow enough to remind Kaelen that respect could be bought and sold like grain.
Next came Duke Mornas, broad-shouldered and towering, his armor polished to a mirrored sheen despite the fact that the council chambers required no such display. A scar ran from his temple to the corner of his jaw, a silent testament to his years in the field. His expression was carved from granite, and his eyes, the pale blue of glacial ice, seemed to strip away the layers of ceremony to look for the soldier beneath Kaelen's robe. He carried no sword today, but his very presence felt like one.
Last was Lady Selvine—a vision of elegance, her gown a cascade of midnight blue silk that shimmered like water under starlight. She wore her black hair in a single braid down her back, threaded with silver clasps. Her lips curved in a faint smile that never reached her eyes. Her gaze moved slowly around the room, resting on each noble before finally settling on Kaelen, as though she were already weighing his value in the game to come.
When all were seated, the chamber doors closed with a heavy thud, sealing them away from the palace beyond. The braziers crackled softly, their flames dancing, as the council's quiet murmurs gave way to expectant silence.
Kaelen took his seat upon the High Dais. The stone was cold even through the heavy fabric of his robes, and the carved lion heads seemed to glare down the table at the assembled lords and ladies. He had imagined his first council differently—him speaking with confidence, his words commanding the respect of those who served the crown. Instead, he felt like a lone wolf surrounded by a pack that was not his own.
Lord Veylan was the first to speak.
"Majesty, the merchants' guild has petitioned for lower tariffs on eastern trade routes. With your father's… unfortunate decline, many fear instability will harm commerce. A reduction would reassure them."
His tone was mild, almost friendly, but Kaelen could hear the steel beneath it. Lower tariffs meant less gold in the royal coffers, more in Veylan's.
Before Kaelen could respond, Duke Mornas leaned forward, gauntleted hands resting on the table.
"What we should be discussing is the state of the northern garrisons. The Demonlands grow restless. We need more men at the border, not more fattened merchants."
Lord Veylan's eyes narrowed. "Gold feeds armies, Duke. Without trade, there will be no coin for steel."
Lady Selvine's voice flowed between theirs like silk.
"Perhaps both of you are correct. But before any reallocations of funds or troops, I believe we should discuss the troubling reports from House Rennovar. They claim certain… caravans have been disappearing eastward. And a entire shipment is gone, without a trace."
Her gaze flicked toward Veylan for just a heartbeat—enough for Kaelen to notice.
Kaelen cleared his throat, determined to steer the discussion. "We will address the tariffs and the troop movements, but the missing caravans must be investigated first. If our supply lines are threatened—"
Duke Mornas cut him off. "With respect, Majesty, but you've never commanded a garrison and supply line threats are constant. What matters is readiness to respond with force."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "And if the threat is internal? From one of our own houses?"
The hall fell quiet for a heartbeat. Lord Veylan's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something in his eyes. Lady Selvine tilted her head, her faint smile growing a fraction.
"Such accusations are dangerous, Your Majesty," Veylan said smoothly. "Without proof, this will risk sowing mistrust among the lords."
Kaelen could feel the shift in the room—the subtle retreat of support, the quiet alignment of factions. His words had not asserted strength; they had marked him as inexperienced. The council's tone grew colder, more formal, as though they were speaking to a boy wearing a crown too large for his head.
By the time the meeting adjourned, Kaelen's voice felt heavy in his throat, his authority chipped by each measured word from the nobles. The final blow came as they departed: Veylan pausing at the door, turning back with a smile too polite to be genuine.
"Majesty, A king's worth is not in the crown he wears, but in the alliances he forges. I trust you will remember that."
The council hall emptied, leaving only the echoes of bootsteps and the smell of smoldering incense. Kaelen sat for a moment in the cold silence, fingers resting on the lion's head of the throne. He told himself it was only his first meeting, that next time would be different.
As he rose, he caught movement in the corner of his eye—a flicker near the shadowed archway by the great doors. A figure stood there for the briefest moment, half-hidden in the gloom. Masked, cloaked in dark fabric that seemed to drink in the light.
Before Kaelen could speak, the figure melted back into the shadows and was gone.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, in the east, gold changed hands in silence.
To be continued…