Chapter 21

  We entered the throne room, and for a moment, I had the feeling that time itself had stood still. The room was no mere gathering place; it was a cathedral of power, an architectural manifesto of House Sothar. The floor consisted of flawless, deep black marble, polished so perfectly that it reflected the gilded support pillars and the massive mosaic windows as if one were walking across the surface of a nocturnal lake. Every time my armored boots struck the stone, a clear, solitary note echoed through the gigantic hall, which was so high that the ceiling disappeared into the gloom amidst the elaborate frescoes.

  On both sides of the room, at precisely measured intervals of five meters, stood the guards. In their seamless, golden Arcane armor, they appeared less like men and more like mechanical gods. Arcane Soldiers. In their hands, they held halberds whose blades were made not of metal, but of concentrated, unstable mana beams. I knew that a single hit from these weapons was enough to melt armor or dismantle a body into its atomic components. These two dozen men could likely have defended the entire palace against an army.

  Yet, the throne at the far end of the hall was empty. The massive seat of white stone and gold seemed almost lost in the silence.

  My curiosity, which had often landed me in trouble, triumphed over my tension. As we traversed the seemingly endless room, I turned to the Lord Chancellor.

  "If I may ask, Lord Chancellor... where does all this wealth come from?" I asked, letting my gaze sweep over the gilded ornaments that shimmered even in the shadows. "With all due respect, but the Veska cores alone aren't enough for all of this. And to my knowledge, there is very little trade, due to the deadly forest and the deliberate isolation of your realm..."

  I paused, feeling Maira shoot me a warning look. Vin looked as though she wanted to sink into the floor regardless, and Arik observed the Arcane Soldiers with a mixture of suspicion and professional appreciation. For a moment, I thought I had pushed it too far. In the world of politics, questioning the gold pouch was often more dangerous than questioning loyalty.

  But to my relief, the Lord Chancellor showed no sign of anger. He didn't even stop walking, instead proceeding with the same stoic calm, the scar on his face an immovable testament to past wars. Then he answered, his voice carrying that instructional undertone of a teacher who appreciates a student asking the right questions.

  "You are right, Paladin Lesko. A sharp eye for the foundations of power," he began, his cloak rustling softly on the marble. "The cores of the Veska are indeed the blood in the veins of our machines. But blood alone does not build golden halls. And one truly cannot speak of Caleon’s trade with pride—especially since we have cast out or are shunned by other advanced peoples, like the High Elves and the Dwarves."

  He placed his hands behind his back and gestured vaguely downward, as if wanting to point through the marble into the bowels of the earth.

  "The wealth of Drymon lies not in what we sell, but in what we control. Deep beneath the roots of the Black Woods, where the Sothar golems dig, our ancestors struck veins of Atherium. It is the rarest of all metals—a natural superconductor for mana. Every ounce of it is worth more than a kilo of gold in the markets of Neros."

  He paused briefly and looked me directly in the eye.

  "The world thinks we isolate ourselves out of arrogance. The truth is: we isolate ourselves because we sit upon a mountain of power that every king in Tirros would love to plunder. The High Elves want the Atherium for their eternal artifacts, the Dwarves for their indestructible forges. By using the forest as a wall and minimizing trade, we preserve the value. We don't have an economy, Luken. We have a monopoly on the substance that will define the next age of magic. The gold on these pillars? That is merely the waste, the byproduct of the refinement process."

  I swallowed hard. That explained the Arcane armor. They weren't just ornate; they were likely crafted from alloys that a master smith in my homeland could only dream of. Caleon wasn't poor—it was a sleeping dragon atop a hoard of magical metal.

  "But wealth without an heir is just cold stone," the Chancellor continued, his voice growing more serious, almost worried. "Thivan knows this. He understands that Atherium makes us a target if we are not united. Hence this coronation. Hence the unification of the Houses. He wants to transform Caleon into a fortress that no one dares to besiege again."

  We reached the end of the hall. But instead of stopping before the throne, the Lord Chancellor turned left into a narrower but equally heavily guarded corridor.

  "He is not here to pose upon the throne," the Chancellor said, picking up the pace. "King Sothar is in the War Room. The news from the North reached him even before you stepped through our gates. The time for ceremonies is over before it even began."

  We followed him in silence. The atmosphere changed abruptly. The festive silence of the throne room was replaced by a bustling franticness. Messengers in light armor ran past us, map scrolls tucked under their arms. The hum of magical communication crystals could be heard through the heavy wooden doors.

  Vin stepped closer to me. "Luken... if he is in the War Room, then he is in his element. The dark energy he’s carried since the accident... it reacts to conflict. Be careful with what you say. He is no longer the boy I knew."

  I only gave a short nod. I felt Gravor becoming restless inside me. The presence of so much Atherium and Arcane magic in this building seemed to irritate my demon. He longhed for a discharge.

  "We are here," the Lord Chancellor announced, stopping before a massive circular portal of ironwood. Two Arcane Soldiers crossed their halberds in front of the door; a faint crackle of mana filled the air.

  "Open," the Chancellor commanded. "The emissary of the Eagle Order and his retinue."

  The soldiers did not hesitate for a second. With a heavy, grinding sound, the doors swung inward.

  The War Room was a chamber of strategic madness. In the center hovered a giant, three-dimensional map of Caleon, formed of light and fine mist. One could see the Black Woods shimmering like emerald-green moss and the white walls of Drymon. But in the North of the map, a malevolent violet light pulsed. It was eating its way through the green zones like wildfire.

  And there, leaning over the map, he stood.

  Thivan Sothar wore no crown. He wore simple black armor covered in Atherium runes. His right hand, which was continuously played over by tiny blue bolts of lightning, hovered above the projection of the North. He did not look up as we entered. His entire attention was focused on the destruction Reyn was bringing upon his land.

  "Four Earth-Veska, Chancellor," Thivan said without looking away. His voice was deep, controlled, but underscored with a dangerous frequency that made the hair on my neck stand up. "Slaughtered in three days. And now the North is burning. My forest is burning."

  He slowly raised his head. His gaze was like a physical blow. His blue eyes glowed with an intensity that was almost painful. He looked first at the Chancellor, then at me, then at Arik and Maira. Finally, his gaze lingered on Vin.

  The silence in the room was absolute. Even the messengers and strategists at the edges of the hall seemed to hold their breath.

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  "Vin," he said very softly. The crackling at his hand grew louder for a moment, a sharp zzap that made the air smell of ozone. "You chose an interesting time to come home."

  I felt Vin freeze beside me. This was no reunion of old friends. This was the encounter between a woman who had left everything behind and a man who had been reforged in the fire of his own pain.

  "We are here to help, Thivan," I said, stepping a half-step in front of Vin to draw the focus to myself. "I am Luken Lesko. We know who is leading this storm."

  Thivan Sothar now turned fully toward us. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the runes on his armor began to pulse in sync with his heartbeat.

  "I know who it is, Paladin," he replied coolly. "The Lord of the Storm. A man who believes he can turn my heritage to ash because he can hurl a few lightning bolts. But he has forgotten one thing: Caleon was not built in the sunlight. We were forged in the darkness of these woods."

  He stepped toward us, and with every step, the room temperature around him seemed to drop while the static charge in the air increased.

  "You say you want to help?" he asked, stopping directly in front of me. He was slightly shorter than I, but his presence filled the entire room. "Then tell me: why should I trust you? Why should I allow a traitor, a plague-bringer, and a Paladin who smells of demon ash to stand in my War Room while my realm stands on the brink of the abyss?"

  I looked him directly in his glowing eyes.

  "Because I can catch you when you stumble," I said, and my voice cut through the heavy, ozone-laden air of the War Room like a sharpened scalpel. I didn't take a step back, even though the static charge radiating from Thivan made the hairs on my arms stand up. "Not with an army, which you already possess, or with my raw strength, which may pale against your golems. But with knowledge. With the insight into what truly lurks behind the veil of this storm."

  Something flickered in Thivan’s eyes, which glowed like two trapped lightning bolts in the darkness. It wasn't trust—he was far from that—but it was that instinctive curiosity of a man who knows he is dancing on a minefield and has just met someone who has the map of the fuses in his head. The blue sparks on his right hand calmed to a gentle but dangerous glow.

  "Speak," he commanded. The word was short, dry, and final. The room around us, the frantic bustle of the messengers, and the glow of the tactical maps seemed to freeze in an unnatural silence.

  I took a deep breath, feeling Gravor’s dark echo in the back of my mind, mockingly urging me to twist the truth. But here, there was no room for lies. "I believe that Reyn is here for far more than a mere display of power," I began cautiously, choosing each word with the precision of a tightrope walk over an abyss. "He doesn't just want to humiliate Caleon or shift your borders. He wants something physical. Something that rests deep beneath the foundations of Drymon."

  Thivan’s eyebrows knit together critically, and a mocking smile played around his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "The Atherium?" he asked with a dismissive gesture of his scarred hand. "Of course he wants the Atherium. Every beggar and every emperor in Tirros wants it. He wants it just as much as everything else we have accumulated over generations." He was already about to turn back to the hovering mist-map as if the conversation were over.

  I shook my head slowly and regretfully. "No, Thivan. It’s not about the metal. It’s about something else. Something ancient. Something... directly beneath this palace."

  It had been a pure theory. A gut feeling, fed by Gravor’s restless whispers about the "Roots of Chaos" and the way Reyn had chosen his paths through the North. But as I spoke the words, I apparently hit the bullseye.

  Thivan froze mid-motion. He turned his head very slowly back toward me. The blue of his eyes had changed; it was now darker, deeper, filled with a knowledge he clearly intended to keep secret. The threat now emanating from him was almost tangible. He no longer seemed like a king, but like a predator that had realized someone discovered its hidden nest.

  "How. Do. You. Know. About. That?" he squeezed out. Each word was like a hammer blow.

  I felt sweat break out on the back of my neck. I had no real idea what he was talking about, but the fact that he reacted this way confirmed my worst fears. Beneath Drymon lay a secret so explosive that even mentioning a "hypothesis" could be considered high treason. I opened my mouth to formulate a diplomatic response, but before the situation could escalate, the room was pierced by a bright flash of light.

  A large astral transmission seized the attention of everyone present.

  In the center of the hall, the life-sized image of a Sergeant of House Wolfsgrund materialized. The man wore the heavy, fur-trimmed armor of his house, but it was soot-stained and dented in several places. He was breathing heavily, his face was smeared with dirt, and in the background of the transmission, one could hear the deafening crash of bursting stone and the howling of mechanical wolves.

  "My King!" the Sergeant cried in a hoarse voice. "The Fortress of the Wolves has suffered a heavy blow. The northern wall still holds, but the inner structures... several buildings have been destroyed! But not by the enemy, not by siege engines, but—"

  Thivan interrupted the man immediately. He raised his metallic, shimmering fist, and the authority in his gesture was so absolute that the Sergeant fell silent mid-sentence. "Steady, Sergeant. Breathe. I will immediately coordinate reinforcements through the Gray Lords and set Barwan’s reserves in motion. Report to me in detail what has happened, but not before the assembled company."

  Thivan now seemed like a different person. The moment of personal threat from my words had been overshadowed by military necessity, but I saw in his gaze that he had not forgotten our topic. He turned to the Lord Chancellor with an icy calm.

  "Lord Chancellor," he said, fixing Vin with a look that was a complex mixture of old pain, suppressed rage, and an almost forgotten longing. "Please escort the Paladin to the Trophy Room. It is quiet there, and there he shall wait for me. I will continue the conversation as soon as this report is concluded and the orders are issued."

  He hesitated for a moment as his gaze slid over Arik and Maira before lingering on Vin again. I knew what he was thinking. In his eyes, she was the woman who had betrayed him in his weakest moment. He could have thrown her into the deepest dungeon on the spot, and no one in Caleon would have stopped him.

  "The other three," he said finally, his voice sounding thick, "will be taken to the lower salon. Under guard. They are to be provided for, but they do not leave the room."

  The Lord Chancellor nodded curtly. He understood the implicit instruction: they were guests, but they were also hostages. "As you command, Majesty."

  The Chancellor gave a signal to the Arcane Soldiers. While Arik, Maira, and a visibly trembling Vin were led by an escort toward the lower floors, the Chancellor placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm, almost warning.

  "Follow me, Paladin," he said softly. "You have stirred more today than is good for your health."

  We left the War Room while behind us, the Sergeant's voice resumed and Thivan began barking orders into the room. The way to the Trophy Room led us through corridors even more magnificent than the previous ones. Here hung tapestries telling the history of the Barwan Wars, and statues of Atherium alloys cast long, bluish shadows on the floor.

  "What is beneath this palace, Chancellor?" I asked in a low voice as we ascended a spiral staircase.

  The Lord Chancellor did not look at me. He stared rigidly ahead, the scar on his face seeming to pulse in the dim light of the magical torches. "There are things in Caleon, Luken Lesko, that are older than the Houses, older than the Atherium, and older than human memory. If you were truly only guessing, then you have the protection of the gods on your side. But if you know more than you admit, then I pray for your soul when Thivan enters that room."

  He stopped before a massive double door of dark ironwood, decorated with reliefs of heroic battles and slain beasts. "The Trophy Room. Wait here. And a piece of advice from an old soldier: do not try to provoke him. He is under a pressure your Order cannot even imagine."

  The doors swung open silently, revealing a room that felt more like a museum of horror and pride. All over the walls hung the cores of giant Veska, mounted on silver plates that still emitted a faint, amber glow. In display cases lay broken swords of legendary heroes, banners of fallen enemies, and strange artifacts whose purpose I could only guess.

  In the center of the room stood a replica of the first golem ever constructed in Caleon—a clunky, raw machine of iron and coarse stone that nevertheless radiated a primitive power.

  I stepped to one of the windows, which offered a wide view over the rooftops of Drymon. The city below me was brightly lit; preparations for the coronation continued despite the news from the North. The people were celebrating, unaware that the forest was already burning and their King was just learning that his fortresses in the North might not be enough.

  But my thoughts remained snagged on Thivan’s reaction. "How do you know about that?"

  Whatever lay beneath us was the true reason for Reyn’s attack. The Atherium was just the loot, but this... this was the objective. I felt Gravor grow restless within me, a hungry fluttering in my chest.

  "He is coming," the demon whispered in my head. "The broken king comes to defend his secrets. Be ready, Luken. The light of the Inquisition will not help you here."

  I squared my shoulders and turned away from the view. The silence in the Trophy Room was oppressive. I was alone with the relics of a bloody past, while outside, the future of an entire realm was at stake. And I knew that the next conversation would decide whether we would go down in the annals of Caleon as heroes or as traitors.

  Then I heard the heavy echo of footsteps in the marble corridor outside. Energetic, fast, accompanied by the familiar crackle of static electricity.

  Thivan Sothar was finished with his reports. And now he wanted answers.