The chill that gripped the Northern Marches was not merely weather; it was the constant, gnawing presence of the Abyss, a cold that seeped into bone and soul. The seven riders—the Primes, the last of the Founders—moved not as distant deities, but as tired generals returning from a long, unending campaign. Their celestial nature was buried beneath heavy wool, oiled leather, and the ever-present memory of cold steel and ancient grief.
Miles behind them, the loyal orders of their sworn familiars guarded the critical nexus points of the ley lines, the thin, magical membrane that tenuously separated this fragile world, Aethelgard, from the Outer Reaches of the Fallow Host. Their protection was a necessary, constant burden, allowing the Primes themselves this dangerous foray into the mortal world. The journey itself was an insult to their antiquity, a fresh reminder of the ceaseless, tiresome war for existence they were bound to fight.
Aron, the eldest, rode at the core of the formation. His cloak was the deep, unsettling colour of iron filings, woven thick against the wind, and his face was a map of victories earned at horrifying cost. His eyes, the only part of him that truly reflected the old magic, seemed to absorb the twilight rather than reflect it, holding shadows within their depths—shadows that mirrored the creeping doubt in his own heart.
"So, Aron," Kai began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that barely carried over the steady drumming of the hoofbeats on the frozen earth. Kai, Prime of Law and Judgement, was clad in polished black leather, bearing the weight of ten thousand codified laws and the icy suspicion born of their perpetual breaking. He rode slightly ahead, his posture suggesting impatience, barely tolerating the necessary speed of the horses, and a deep, ingrained distrust of King Authar, the fortress of Camelot, and the entire precarious political endeavor.
"It was your old apprentice, Merlin, who invited us to this farce of a banquet," Kai continued, spitting the word 'banquet' out as if it were a bone he couldn't swallow. "He who sits beside Authar—the boy king, the Pendragon—who has stitched this patchwork realm of Aethelgard together with fresh blood and hollow promises. A kingdom built on the illusion of stability, one arrow-slit away from crumbling to dust the moment the truce weakens."
Aron did not turn his head, merely adjusted his iron-coloured reins, feeling the familiar, cold pressure of his divinity chafing against the cloak that hid it. "It is a necessity, Kai. Not a farce. The truce with the lesser Shadow-Brood holds only by fear, and they test the perimeter nightly, like scavenging dogs. Aethelgard is the hinge upon which the North turns. If it breaks, the ley lines shatter, and we are overrun. If Merlin did not call us, I would have been forced to summon him to account for the world's stability."
"Proud of him, are you?" Kai pressed, his dark eyes—shrewd, calculating, and unforgiving—glancing back at Aron. "After all, it was he who protected the kingdom of Authar. A mortal man wielding power that should be reserved for the true inheritors of the Deep Craft. It speaks ill of our own vigilance that a mortal had to save us from ourselves." The subtext was heavy and clear: Merlin is dangerously powerful. You fostered that danger, and your judgment is compromised.
"I am indeed proud of him," Aron stated, his tone flat, allowing no space for a political breach, yet leaving a subtle metallic edge of warning in the air. "He has shown his worth to us all. He has taken the arcane power we gifted and bound it to the earth, creating anchors where before there was only magical drift. He understands the cold, bitter cost of protection better than most who wear crowns. His loyalty is to the world, not to a dynasty, and that is a rare thing, even among the Primes."
A silence descended, thick and cold, broken only by the rhythmic clop of their mounts. The true cost of protection was the constant, maddening tension that stretched over their small procession. Every shadow was a potential ambush; every stone outcrop, a place for an assassin.
Aza, riding flank on Aron's left, looked up towards the west. The sun was not merely setting; it was dying, bleeding a deep, visceral crimson across the horizon, turning the low-hanging clouds into sheets of bruised purple and sulfurous yellow. It caught the facets of her dragon-scale mask—a ritual piece of polished bronze and obsidian that covered her face entirely, leaving only twin slits for her fiercely intelligent eyes.
"Is this not beautiful?" she murmured, her voice metallic and smooth, lacking the warmth of human speech. She turned her masked head, the bronze reflecting the dying light in fiery streaks, to look at Alexandra and Azura, who rode a respectful distance behind. The light gave her the appearance of a creature perpetually wreathed in flame, a dangerous, deceptive beauty.
Alexandra, the Prime of War and the Master of Steel, clad in plate armor scarred from skirmishes in the cold, desolate reaches where the land meets the Abyss, nodded slowly. Her face was perpetually grim, her expression weathered and hard, as if she were always awaiting the next deluge of arrows or the sudden collapse of a mountain pass beneath her. "It is the colour of a fresh kill, Aza," she said, her voice dry as desert sand, betraying her exhaustion. "Nothing more. A reminder of what must be shed to see the dawn, and the bloodshed that is promised."
Azura, the youngest of the original seven, offered no words. She merely tightened her grip on the reins of her pale mare, a beast as silent and observant as its rider. Azura carried the heaviest burden: the weight of the future, the chilling certainty of the prophecies whispered by the collapsing stars—omens none of the others cared to hear, save perhaps Aron. Her eyes were wide, fixed on a horizon invisible to mortals, seeing the coming slaughter. Her silence was louder than any decree, a testament to the horrors she foresaw and could not prevent.
Mel rode slightly in front, separated by her own choice and the subtle, unspoken law of the Primes. She was the paradox of the Seven, the Prime of Balance, carrying the lineage of both primordial Creation and the Deep Abyss in her blood. She watched the rugged land they passed, the fortified settlements, the meager fields carved from the wild. She admired what they all had created together—this tenacious, flawed, beautiful world that persisted despite the endless warring between the celestial and the abyssal.
I have done good for a change. The thought was a prayer, a desperate whisper, and a shield all at once. She was glad that she had not turned out like her brothers. Her family's shadow was an invisible chain she dragged through every council, every battle, every moment of peace. The very mention of her kin could shatter treaties and sow chaos.
Her youngest brother, the dark principle known only as The First Reaver, or simply Chaos, was the malignant, dark thread woven into the very fabric of existence. The memory of his rebellion—the brutal, failed coup to overthrow the Demon King of the Outer Reaches and seize the true Abyssal Throne—still haunted the waking nightmares of the Primes. He had failed, yes, but only because the universe had fought back with a vengeance that almost consumed itself. Now, the omens were clear, the signs etched in the stars and the tremors in the earth's foundation. The world had exhaled, and now it was time for the terrifying, destructive inhale.
He was to rise again. Not against the Outer Reaches, this time, but against them, against this fragile world they called Aethelgard. He was to cause the Age of Burning Shadow—a cataclysm the ignorant mortals, in their fear, had already begun to name the "Holy War." A conflict that would devour gods and men alike, leaving only ash and the chilling echo of his maniacal laughter. Mel felt the familiar, crushing guilt, a cold hand gripping her heart until it felt like a stone. He is my blood, and his destiny is ruin. I am his sister, and I am accountable.
The other Primes knew her lineage. They accepted her fealty to the balance, but they never truly trusted her blood. It was why she rode slightly apart, forever under the cold, silent scrutiny of Kai, whose distrust was open, and the deep, resigned gaze of Aron, who saw only the inevitable doom.
The last sliver of the sun finally vanished, swallowed by the craggy peaks, leaving only the fierce, cold blue of deep twilight. In the distance, rising from the mist and the rocky crags like a great, scarred beast, loomed the formidable stone teeth of Camelot.
It was not the luminous, golden city of the bards' romanticized songs. It was a brutal, pragmatic fortress: towering walls of dark grey granite, stained by rain and the smoke of countless winter fires. Its crenelations bristled like the spines of an armored beast, and narrow, arrow-slit windows cast dull, jaundiced light onto the muddy ground below. It reeked of cold, damp stone, drying hides, and the immense, suffocating weight of political ambition and human desperation.
They approached the formidable main gates—twin slabs of ancient iron hammered into shape by giants, set between immense watchtowers that guarded the valley pass. The great iron gate was already lifted, held aloft by thick, groaning chains, a deliberate show of trust and welcome from the King. Yet, every Prime knew that the moment they were fully inside, that iron curtain could drop, sealing them into a mortal trap from which escape, though possible, would shatter the alliance.
They were awaited not by a riotous fanfare of trumpets, which would have been appropriate for deities, but by a small, select, and private party—the elite members of the King's sworn shield, the Round Table. They stood rigid in the damp cobblestone courtyard, a formidable assembly of men and women in various states of polished steel and battle-worn leather.
The welcoming party was led by Sir Lancelot, a figure of icy, aristocratic perfection in gleaming armor that seemed to repel dirt, and the grim-faced Sir Kay, the Master-at-Arms, his hand never far from the hilt of his massive, two-handed sword. Their welcome was formally warm, their bows practiced and precise, but their eyes were cold—filled with the wariness of mortals who know they are greeting beings capable of ending their world with a simple, bored thought.
"Primes," Lancelot intoned, his voice echoing slightly against the stone walls. He offered a practiced, shallow bow—a show of respect that retained the dignity of his knighthood while keeping his spine straight. "Welcome to Camelot. The King and the Arch-Mage await your presence at the Stone Table."
The seven dismounted, their movements smooth and practiced, handing their reins to the nervous squires with barely a glance. As their ancient boots met the damp stone, the air seemed to thicken, the mortal guards instinctively stiffening under the sheer, concentrated primordial power of the Founders.
They were escorted through the inner bailey, where the path was lined with silent, rigid guards, their spears held fast. The scent of woodsmoke, old beer, and the metallic tang of rain and iron filled the cold air. They were led up winding stone stairs, their passage marked by the flicker of torches in wall sconces carved with the emblems of Aethelgard: the crimson dragon and the stylized, broken sword.
Finally, they were ushered into the Hall of the Stone Table—the unyielding, pragmatic heart of the fortress.
It was a cavernous, imposing space, less a feast hall and more a command center carved from the living bedrock of the hill. The walls were hung not with colorful tapestries of pleasure, but with severe, dark banners detailing lineage and past victories—a silent, chilling reminder of who ruled here and the catastrophic cost of their ascent. In the center, dominating the space, was the famous Round Table itself—not an object of romantic unity, but a massive, unforgiving disc of polished black basalt, a solemn monument to the vows sworn upon it. It had been cracked in a past conflict, and the mend lines were visible, a symbol of Aethelgard's fragile nature.
At the far end, upon a modest, unadorned stone dais, sat King Arthur. He was younger than the legends suggested, his brow furrowed with the strain of governance, but his gaze was steady, his posture radiating a quiet, dangerous confidence forged in battle. Beside him, dressed in simple, midnight-blue robes that seemed to drink the meager light, was Merlin. The Arch-Mage looked older than time itself, his white hair framing a face that was both deeply weary and impossibly alert—his dark eyes fixed only on the Primes.
As the Seven Founders entered, the entire hall fell into a profound, chilling silence. Every man-at-arms, every sworn warrior, and every noble in the hall, followed the lead of their King.
Merlin, Arthur, and the other sworn men of the Table did not merely bow their heads. They rose from their seats, placed their weapons—Arthur his gleaming, sheathed sword, Merlin his staff of ancient weirwood—on the polished black stone floor, and sank slowly, deliberately, to one knee.
It was the oldest gesture of fealty, a humbling acknowledgment of a superior power, one that had not been performed for the Primes in living memory. It was a raw, calculated political stroke—a public, unmistakable declaration of the Primes' supreme, unquestionable authority, and a heavy burden of expectation placed upon their ancient shoulders.
"Primes," King Arthur said, his voice ringing clearly in the sudden silence, the sound of the metal of his sword settling on the stone still echoing faintly. "We welcome you back to the earth you forged. My kingdom, Aethelgard, and my life are yours to command, should the Shadow-Brood test the walls again."
Aron stepped forward, the iron filings in his cloak seeming to shimmer as he moved. His movements were deliberate, each step weighted with the memory of the first Great War.
"Rise, Pendragon," Aron commanded, his voice deep, resonating in the stone like distant thunder across a mountain range. "Fealty is not required. Truth is. Tell us why you called us from our vigil. Why summon the architects when the house is still standing and your armies still march?"
Arthur rose, followed by Merlin, who watched Aron with the sharp, unreadable gaze of a pupil who has long since surpassed his master.
"The house is standing, Prime Aron," Arthur countered, meeting the ancient being's stare without flinching. "But the rats are in the wainscoting, and the foundations have begun to tremble. We have problems not of steel and arrows, but of shadow and prophecy. The greatest threat is not the Fallow Host at the borders, but the dark legacy of the past."
He gestured to the Arch-Mage, confirming his source with a gesture that spoke of absolute trust. "Merlin, my liege, has seen the omens. They speak not of external war, but of blood kin. They speak of the First Reaver—Mel's brother, Chaos. They speak of the Age of Burning Shadow, the war that will make all previous conflicts look like a children's skirmish. We did not call you for a banquet, Prime Aron. We called you for a war council. A desperate council for a war that is already lost, unless the Seven can agree on how to face the darkness that comes from within your own bloodline."
Mel felt a cold sweat instantly break out on her skin beneath her robes. The darkness that comes from within. Arthur had just laid bare her greatest fear and her deepest shame, exposing her vulnerability in front of the six ancient beings who already eyed her with relentless suspicion. The silence that followed Arthur's pronouncement was a physical weight, pressing the air from her lungs until she felt dizzy.
She felt the six gazes lock onto her, sharper and colder than any steel forged in the mortal world. Kai's face, in particular, was a mask of furious accusation, his lips thinning to a pale line. Treachery, his eyes seemed to scream in the silence, You brought this shadow upon us. You allowed this to fester.
Alexandra, ever the pragmatist, gripped the hilt of her sword, her eyes flicking from Mel to Arthur, calculating the nearest route to the nearest exit should the fragile peace shatter into open conflict. Azura simply closed her eyes, a single, silent tear tracking a path through the dust on her cheek—a chilling sign that the omens she carried were now tragically confirmed, sealing the fate of the world.
The banquet, indeed, was dead before the first cup of wine was poured. The Conclave of the Stone Throne had devolved into a tribunal for the world's survival, and Mel, the Prime of Balance, suddenly found herself standing on the precipice of judgment, haunted by the shadow of the brother she had long ago failed to stop. The long night, it seemed, had begun early within the walls of Camelot.