From his seat just behind the King's high chair, Praxus surveyed the assembly in the Great Hall. It was, he thought, a perfect representation of the world's brokenness. A great, circular table of dark, ancient oak had been set up, but the leaders did not sit as equals. They sat in tense, hostile blocs, a physical manifestation of their ancient grudges.
The delegation from Karak was a wall of grim, armored granite. High Chieftain Gunnar Frostfang, a bear of a man with a beard braided into three thick plaits, sat with his arms crossed, his expression one of open contempt. Astrid Stonehand and her small, pragmatic faction sat pointedly at the far end of the Karak section, a visible schism in the northern delegation.
The leaders from Zahram were a whisper of silk and suspicion. Matriarch Soraya of the Al-Sabil sat straight-backed and watchful, her face an unreadable mask of ancient wisdom. Beside her, the envoys from the great oasis-cities shifted nervously, their veiled faces betraying nothing but their fear. They were a people divided, caught between a heretic king and a monstrous prophet.
The tribal elders from Verdane were the quietest, a small group of hunters and shamans who looked deeply uncomfortable within the stone confines of the hall, their eyes constantly moving, as if expecting a threat from the shadowed rafters above. And the lords of Aethel itself, the King's own vassals, were a fractured group, the southern lords of the Sunstone March glaring with ill-disguised resentment at their King.
The tension was a physical force in the room, a pressure that seemed to suck the air from Praxus's lungs.
King Valerius rose. His voice, when it came, was not the boom of a High King demanding fealty. It was the weary, grim voice of an equal.
"I see a room of rivals," he began, his gaze sweeping across the hostile faces. "I see a room of ancient grudges and fresh, bitter wounds. Good." A murmur of confusion went through the hall. "That is the truth of our world. And it is this truth that we must now set aside, or I promise you, we will all perish in our own separate, prideful darkness."
He did not begin with Praxus's heresy. He began with their shared pain. He looked to the eldest shaman from Verdane. "Elder Faelan, is it not true that the beasts of your forests have become twisted things, hunting your people with an unnatural cunning?"
The old man, surprised to be addressed directly, gave a slow, solemn nod. "It is true. The woods are sick."
The King's gaze shifted to Soraya. "Matriarch, is it not true that a new and poisonous death cult, which preys upon the desperate, is spreading through your lands like a plague?"
Soraya's dark eyes met his. "It is true. They call themselves the Covenanters."
Finally, he looked directly at Gunnar Frostfang. "High Chieftain, is it not true that your deepest, most ancient silver veins have run inexplicably barren, and that your best mining crews have been slaughtered by hordes of Ashen monsters?"
Gunnar's face tightened, his pride warring with the undeniable truth of the King's words. He gave a single, curt grunt of assent.
"We are all bleeding from a thousand different cuts," Valerius declared, his voice rising. "For a year, my scholars have sought the cause. And we have found one. The source of our suffering is not a blight, nor a famine, nor the righteous anger of our god. It is an invasion. The entity that sits on the throne of heaven is not our shepherd. It is an imposter."
The hall erupted. Shouts of "Blasphemy!" and "Heresy!" echoed off the stone walls. Gunnar Frostfang was on his feet, his hand on the pommel of his great axe.
"SILENCE!" the King roared, a sound of pure, raw authority that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the power of a true king pushed to his limit. Simultaneously, he gave a sharp, almost imperceptible signal. The Royal Guards stationed at the walls slammed the butts of their heavy spears onto the stone floor in a single, deafening BOOM. The sound, combined with the King's furious command, shattered the chaos. The leaders fell silent, stunned by the display of absolute, disciplined force.
"You will not call it blasphemy until you have heard the evidence," Valerius commanded, his voice now a low, dangerous growl in the ringing silence. "You will now hear the testimony of the man who uncovered this truth. Magister Praxus of the Royal Lyceum."
Praxus's heart hammered against his ribs as he stood. This was it. The culmination of his long, terrible journey. With a calm, steady voice, he told them everything. He spoke of the unraveling sky, of the Lament of the First Scribe, of the Two-Who-Were-One, and of the lost battle that had sealed their fate.
When he finished, a stunned, heavy silence filled the hall. It was Gunnar who broke it, his voice dripping with scorn.
"You expect the leaders of the world to declare war based on a fairy tale? A story from a single, madman's scroll you found in a swamp?" He pointed a thick finger at Valerius. "It is more likely your kingdom's weakness invited this curse! You speak of truth, yet you cannot even keep order in your own lands! We have all heard of the assassination of Duke Gareth. Your own house is in chaos, and you seek to drag us down with you!"
Before Praxus could respond, Matriarch Soraya spoke, her voice a sharp, cutting whisper. "Your story is compelling, Magister. But it has a flaw. You speak of a benevolent god who is gone, and a tyrannical one who has taken his place. Yet this new god offers miracles. My people in the cities, they see it. A well in a dry town, filled. A fortune, granted. How do you explain this power? It seems a very real god to me, however cruel its price."
This was the heart of the debate, the seductive power of Ouen's poison.
Praxus met her gaze. "A predator that baits its trap with a piece of meat is still a predator, Matriarch," he replied, his voice ringing with a newfound conviction. "The fact that the trap works does not make it a gift. Ghra'thul offers bargains not to help us, but to prove his own philosophy: that we are nothing but selfish, transactional creatures whose souls can be bought and sold. Every miracle he grants is another nail in the coffin of our free will."
The arguments raged, a deadlock of pride, fear, and logic. Praxus could feel them slipping away, the fragile chance for unity dissolving into a dozen different factions of doubt.
Then, King Valerius rose one last time. He had played his hand, and it was not enough. So he played his final, most desperate card. He did not offer another argument. He offered a witness.
"You have heard the theory," the King said, his voice cutting through the noise. "You have questioned the scholar. Now, you will hear the testimony of a witness. A witness to the enemy's new law, and to the first triumph of our own resilience."
He signaled to the guards. The great doors opened again, and a single, small figure was escorted into the center of the Great Hall. It was Hanna, the healer from Greenhollow, her simple clothes a stark contrast to the finery and armor of the lords. She looked terrified, but her expression was resolute.
A confused, angry murmur went through the assembly. Who was this common woman? What could she possibly have to say to the leaders of the world?
They were about to find out.
---
The Chronicle of the Fallen
Time Period Covered: Day 400 of the Age of Fear
Victims of The Reaping: 1
Victims of the Covenant: 5
Deaths from Ashen Attacks: 11
Deaths from Civil Unrest: 2
Total Lives Lost: 19
Of Note Among the Fallen:
— A Royal Messenger from Aethel, slain by bandits in the lawless territories of the Sunstone March while carrying a follow-up summons to a rebellious lord.