Truth, in political halls, is the rarest performance of all.

  And mortals love their performances, especially in halls where power gathers and watches itself.

  But the best performance is that of the fool.

  The fool asks innocent questions that aren't innocent at all. The fool stumbles into subjects others avoid, then apologizes for the mess while counting the spill. The fool juggles knives in crowded rooms, and when someone finally objects, acts surprised the blades were sharp.

  I've seen this performance across a thousand shores. The fool is never the fool. That's the point. He wears the mask so no one watches his hands. He plays the jester so no one expects the blade. Act fool brightly and by the time others notice the trap, they're already inside it.

  The wise watch the clever speakers. But I've learned to watch the fools—because the fool is the most dangerous player at the table.

  They're the ones who make you laugh while they cut your throat.

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  The Veil listens — 11 months before The Convergence

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  "His seat can't remain empty." Lucient's words hung in the air.

  The Council, still reeling from Cedran's death, went rigid. The old conjurer's timing was impeccable. Grief had barely landed but he already moved to fill the void.

  His voice echoed in the hall like a blunt blade. Around the circular table, eyes turned toward Cedran's vacant chair, its carved wood suddenly seeming to pulse with absence.

  Lady Evelyn Tareth, Lauritia's advisor, sat stiffly in her chair, fingers tightening on her own armrest. She looked at Lucient, "Grand Meister Morvane deserves proper mourning—"

  "Which he shall have," Lucient interrupted, not unkindly but with the efficiency of a man who had navigated too many Councils to waste time on sentiment. "But Lauritia cannot remain voiceless. I propose… Lord Allain Morgenstorm take the seat. Young blood from a powerful conjuring family, well-versed in lunar studies, just like Cedran."

  The suggestion fell like salt in an open wound, stinging as it spread and Dayang Marilag did not take it lightly. “Strange,” she murmured, “How quickly grief becomes an opportunity. One might almost think Thryvakk had been rehearsing Lauritia’s lines.”

  Across the circle, Garrick’s mouth curved into a faint smirk. It wasn’t amusement at Marilag’s wit but satisfaction at watching Lucient—his own advisor, the deposed but still lingering Grand Meister—spoken to like a boy. But the smirk vanished when Marilag suggested Evelyn instead. He leaned back, eyes sweeping the room.

  "Speaking of empty seats..." Garrick's gaze found another vacant chair. "Kendal's absence grows rather notable. Twelve years of empty chair granted for heroism. But where is our hero?" His eyes narrowed on Lucient. "Surely that matter could wait."

  The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop.

  Lucient’s hand tightened on his staff, though his voice remained even. “Lord Vale,” he said, each syllable weighted, “Surely you are not suggesting—”

  “I am… suggesting nothing,” Garrick cut in smoothly. “Merely observing that perhaps Thryvakk is missing its Grand Meister. Especially when his advisor speaks so readily of filling other seats.”

  Grex stirred from the stone wall. His voice cut through the tension. “Kendal’s seat remains as it was granted—for service, for sacrifice. Until his fate is known, it stands. That courtesy would be extended to any hero who bled for the continent of Nareen.”

  From across the chamber, Gideon Olrric rose. His words rang with unshakable conviction. “Grex speaks true. I also fought beside Kendal when the sky split. His absence is a wound upon us all. Until his bones are found, the seat is his by right.”

  Hortew's staff struck floor, cutting through rising voices. "While we wrangle over empty chairs," his voice carried supreme authority, "Our world faces crisis that grows by the day."

  The Council fell silent.

  "Cedran's death was no random end. He died with ink revealing what a handful suspected but dared not voice—the Lunar Convergence is not following natural patterns."

  The Council fell silent, faces turning toward their Supreme Grand Meister. Even Lucient’s subtle maneuvering paused in the face of Hortew’s evident urgency.

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  “The moons do not hasten of their own accord. They are being pulled—dragged—by hands unseen.”

  He raised his staff and the torchlight bent, shadows stretching long across the chamber. Cold wind swept their faces pale.

  "Voidcallers stir. Their whispers scrape the Veil like claws on glass. You remember the Sundering Eclipse—how the sky cracked, how Baku's talon split the firmament. Some still deny it. Let them. But if the Veil shatters once more, no denial shields us from shadow's flood."

  His gaze swept them, grave and unflinching.

  “Who will stand against Baku? Many warriors who bled in the last Convergence were gone, withered, or missing. Their names are carved in stone, while the Voidcallers gather strength in the dark. The balance tilts, and not in our favor.”

  He lowered his staff, the motion slow, deliberate, final.

  “The Convergence is no matter for tomorrow. A comrade has fallen, one with extensive knowledge about The Convergence. It is upon us now. And unless we face it together, none of our seats—filled or empty—will matter at all.”

  For a long moment, no one dared speak or move. The chamber held its breath until Lucient Armont rose slowly.

  “Grave words, Supreme Grand Meister,” he said evenly. “Yet not all share your certainty. Some still question whether a claw ever appeared in the cracked sky. I am certain that it did, without question. But there were whispers that only few saw what they claim to have seen. That perhaps this talk of talon is a tale spun by meisterdoms who profit from fear.”

  A murmur stirred among the cloaks. Lucient’s voice cut through it, calm as steel sliding from a sheath.

  “For twelve years, many have believed the tale. Yet belief is not proof. Has the sky split again? No. Has the Veil torn further? No. What we have seen are our champions aged, our strength diminished. Even I cannot conjure as I once did.”

  He let that admission hang, a feigned humility… words that made the truth sharper when followed. His gaze settled on Hortew, unflinching.

  “And neither, it seems, can you.”

  The words struck like frost across the chamber.

  "But," Lucient continued, his tone growing more philosophical, "Even those who stood on that battlefield are not what they once were. Age claims us all, whether we admit it or not." His eyes rested briefly on Hortew, "Even the strongest must acknowledge that time makes mortals… of us ALL." Lucient turned away.

  Grex caught the subtle emphasis, the way Lucient's gaze lingered just long enough to suggest knowledge without stating it. A chill ran down his spine—how much did the old conjurer know? The implication hung in the air like gas smoke, subtle but poisonous. Grex can recognize when a political knife is wielded.

  Their eyes met across the chamber. Hortew's expression remained impassive, but Grex saw the slight tension.

  Zangru Fenglai broke the silence. Older than most in the chamber, though far from the twilight of Lucient and Hortew, his presence carried the calm weight of decades. His words precise. His tone, like a lullaby.

  “You quarrel over the truths of the Sundering Eclipse—an event that all of us endured, though in different degrees. We still suffer the fragments today. What use in denying what was seen, or in claiming it belonged only to some? The Veil cracked. That much is certain. What remains uncertain is where it will crack again. Will the next rift still open over Wolfpit? Within Nareen? Elsewhere in the map? None can say.”

  As Zangru's words settled, Garrick folded his hands neatly on the table, gaze steady, “That uncertainty demands readiness. If the Convergence cannot be delayed, then we must prepare those who will face it next."

  He straightened, confidence building.

  "I've proposed two paths before this Council. Both remain unanswered. First—a Centralized Academy, pooling our strongest instructors." He paused, reading resistance in their faces. "I know many object. So I offer the second path: open local Academies to foreign students. Shared knowledge strengthens us all."

  Dayang Marilag’s dark eyes glinted. “Easy options for those who rely on Academies. Our conjuring is passed through houses and tribes where it belongs. We do not measure our strength by rosters and registries.”

  "Without measure," Garrick pressed, "how do we know what strength exists? How do we coordinate when the Veil cracks?"

  "You assume coordination requires your oversight," Marilag countered. "That strength must be catalogued, controlled, made uniform."

  "I assume," Garrick said carefully, "that isolated training leaves gaps. The last Convergence proved that. Warriors who'd never fought together, who didn't know each other's methods—"

  "Warriors who still sealed the Veil," Marilag interrupted. "Without your centralization."

  Neder Hass, Solavern's advisor, leaned forward. "The Dayang raises fair concern. But Lord Vale's point stands. Strength is not only flesh and bone. Strong weapons, strong tools, strong bound spirits—these win battles as surely as men do."

  Gideon leaned forward, eyes lighting with sudden excitement. "The Headhunter, you mean the Headhunter?"

  The name fell like a hammer.

  Heads turned. Silence gathered. It carried two shadows: Kendal's moniker on the battlefield, and the name young Iakob gave the axe he now struggled to master.

  Gideon's enthusiasm didn't dim. "A relic forged with Baku's scale itself. Imagine what such a weapon could accomplish in trained hands." He spread his hands wide, almost childlike in his wonder. "If we're discussing strength, surely we must consider—" He stopped, seeming to notice the tension in the room for the first time.

  His expression shifted, concern replacing excitement. "Forgive me. The boy is young, of course. Thirteen." He shook his head, suddenly protective. "Too young to bear such weight alone." A pause, then quieter, almost to himself: "Though if the Convergence comes, and the Veil cracks as it did before... can we afford to leave such power untested?"

  He looked up, genuinely troubled now. "I don't envy the decision."

  Trin's expression was carefully controlled, but her fingers twitched once against the table, reaching for words she would not speak in front of the Council.

  Then came a sound few expected: Lucient’s dry, quiet laugh. He leaned slightly on his staff, eyes narrowing with the weight of something caught. “Ah,” he murmured, “so that is the game you’ve been playing.”

  Lucient did not elaborate. He simply settled back, watching the Council with careful attention of someone who'd just noticed pieces moving on a board.

  Grex's hand moved to his chest, pressing briefly where the booklet rested inside his vest. Then he moved at last, pushing from the wall. His boots struck stone in steady measure as he crossed Kendal's chair, then Cedran's toward his seat, cloak trailing like a shadowed banner. Eyes were all on him.

  "However," Grex said, surprising them all, "I understand the realm's need. If the Council insists on preparing for the worst..." He paused, letting the tension build. "I have three conditions."

  The chamber fell silent, waiting.