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  Chapter 9: A Cathedral of Cardinals

  By the time she reached the temple gates, dusk had begun to seep through the clouds like bruises. The great doors loomed, etched in sacred sigils and vinework that shimmered faintly in the gloom.

  For a moment, she hesitated.

  Then, with a hand steady as silence, she reached out and pushed one door open. Its groan echoed down the corridor within; ancient wood parting like the throat of the earth. And Vael stepped into the hush beyond.

  Inside, the air was cool and thick with incense, laced with the iron scent of old rituals and sanctified soil. Her footsteps rang against smooth stone, swallowed swiftly by the vastness that opened before her.

  It was a cathedral carved from the bones of the forest.

  Ninety-eight Cardinals stood in formation like blood-stained feathers unfurled across the marble floor, each robed in the colors of their elemental faction: the rich moss-greens and living browns of Wood, the ember-reds and gold-trimmed blacks of Fire, the sun-cracked ochres and bone-whites of Earth, the gleaming silvers and iron-grays of Metal, and the fluid sapphires and deep jades of Water.

  They had traveled from every corner of the Eryshae lands; summoned not only to bear witness to Vael’s station, but to partake in a rare and sacred rite: the elevation of a new Cardinal.

  One seat among them stood empty.

  The Cardinal of Smokevale, Elder Hareth of the Water faction, had reached his eightieth summer. As tradition demanded, he had stepped down with grace, bearing his years like laurels and his wisdom like a blade laid to rest. No Cardinal could serve beyond eighty. To do so would risk stagnation in a council meant to evolve with the breath of the tribe.

  Now, ninety-eight Cardinals had gathered to cast their sacred votes; each holding the weight of their township in their voice, and the hopes of their people in their hands. Five factions, five philosophies, five visions of the Eryshae future; each vying for influence within the Court.

  At the far end of the hall, a dais rose in slow, deliberate tiers. Upon it stood the Thrones of the Eryshae Tribe; one carved in ironwood, another in pale linden, entwined with dormant vines and crowned in ancient runes. The third; hers… they stood empty, they stood Regal. Waiting for her.

  Her parents, the Chief and Chieftess were absent; investigating the Root-Rip beyond the city walls; and the silence left in their stead was weightier than their presence ever was. A messenger had been dispatched as soon as the Outsider, Sam had appeared at the Sacred Tree. Her emotions grew complex as she thought of his eyes, and subtle blush creeping into her cheeks.

  Behind them towered two massive Eryshae statues, sculpted from dark stone veined with glimmering quartz. Their sabered muzzles curled in eternal snarls, and their luminous gemstone eyes glared forward with predatory stillness. Their hulking raccoon forms were captured seated, claws unsheathed, every sinew and tuft of fur painstakingly rendered. Their massive heads nearly brushed the vaulted ceiling above, as though the weight of their judgment held the roof aloft.

  Between their carved forms, the thrones seemed almost small. To either side of the thrones stood the Nine Elders, cloaked in blackened robes that drank the light. They did not move, did not speak. They simply were; the unmoving roots of the Eryshae.

  The hush wrapped tighter around her shoulders, like a burial shroud of expectation. And still, she walked. As Vael stepped before the dais, the air grew heavier; weighted not with silence, but with presence. One of the Nine Elders lifted a staff of charred yew, its tip bound in braided silver root, and struck it once upon the stone floor. The sound rippled like thunder through the chamber.

  “All rise,” the Elder intoned, voice deep and cracked with age, yet resonant as stormwind. The Cardinals stood in perfect unison, robes rustling like dry leaves.

  A second Elder approached, carrying a shallow basin carved from obsidian. Within it coiled the ceremonial ink; dark as the void beneath the forest, mixed with moonmilk and ash. Without a word, she extended it.

  Vael did not flinch as another Elder dipped two fingers into the ink and pressed them to her brow, her sternum, and both shoulders in an ancient pattern; the Root, the Heart, the Reach, the Sky.

  “Blood of the First Eryshae,” the Elder murmured. “Daughter of the Chieftain and Chieftess. Guardian of the Old Pacts. Princess of the Eryshae, Vael Solmyre.”

  The chant echoed back from the Cardinals, spoken as one:

  “She is named. She is known.”

  Then came the final gesture. The tallest of the Nine Elders; his hood woven with threads of living moss; stepped forward, bearing the ceremonial mantle: a cloak of black feathers and barkcloth, edged in lunar silk and clasped with a tooth from one of the First Eryshae. He draped it over Vael’s shoulders with solemn hands.

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  “The forest remembers,” he said. “And so must you.” As she turned to face the temple, her people bowed low; Cardinals, Elders, Nobles, and supplicants alike.

  As the mantle settled around her shoulders, its weight seemed to double. Not just feathers and fabric; but expectation. Memory. Blood. Vael turned, facing the sea of bowed heads, and every step toward the throne echoed with the thunder of a hundred untold burdens.

  The throne itself loomed like judgment; wrought from living wood and polished stone, etched with the swirling sigils of her lineage. She had played beneath it as a child. Now it watched her like a waiting mouth.

  She hesitated.

  I am not ready.

  The thought coiled through her ribs, tight and venomous. Her parents were still the true rulers, far beyond the city walls. She was no Chieftess. No warrior-priestess of the tribe like her mother. Just a daughter raised in shadow and lore, in half-whispers and firelight stories.

  “The throne is not a place of ease,” her father had once told her, voice low as the dusk outside their chambers. “It is where courage sits beside doubt. You do not need to be ready. Only willing.”

  And her mother’s words followed, quieter still, like a breath against her ear: “Let them see your bones, girl. Let them know you feel. That’s how they’ll believe you can carry theirs.”

  Her legs moved on instinct, more ceremonial than certain, and when she sank into the seat, it felt too large; its carved arms distant, the height unnatural. As if the throne itself were measuring her soul.

  And yet; the silence held. No one moved. No one questioned.

  A breeze stirred from the high windows, catching the feathers of her mantle. Above, the twin Eryshae loomed in stillness, their sabered mouths frozen in ancient snarl; as if daring the world to challenge the girl below.

  Vael straightened her spine. Let the hush stretch. Let it weigh. Let them see her wrestle; and choose not to bend. Because if she could sit here now, unsure and trembling and full of fire, she could sit here when it mattered.

  Vael rose from the throne, her voice calm but carrying through the vaulted chamber like wind through tall grass.

  “Honored Elders. Esteemed Cardinals. Representatives of Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water. Thank you for gathering here, beneath the gaze of our ancestors and the everwatchful Eryshae. You may be seated.”

  She paused, letting her gaze sweep across the crowd; the sea of color and devotion that made up the Court. The sigils of the factions glinted in torchlight, stitched into robes and etched into circlets.

  “Today marks a sacred rite. One of memory. One of continuity. One of choice. As Elder Hareth steps down in dignity and peace, we now look to the future. The Court must rise again to full strength. The ninety-ninth Cardinal must be chosen.” A respectful murmur answered her declaration.

  She sat again, her posture regal but her mind sharper than any blade. One by one, her eyes settled on each faction, assessing them as a hunter might track movement in the forest.

  From the Earth faction, a solid man named Moraen Stoneback stood cloaked in roughspun browns and heavy bracelets of soil-bound quartz. A speaker known for unity and preservation.

  From Metal, a shrewd and silver-tongued woman named Kareth Voln, her robes stitched with chainsilk and copper. Her mind was a forge, and her ambitions were no secret.

  From Water, Serene Liri of the Tidebranch, a pale, steady woman with a voice like rain. She bore the calmness of a river and the quiet influence of one who knows how to carve canyons over time.

  From Wood, Vael’s own faction, stood Elder Thornhollow; a thin-limbed sage who had once tutored her in the ways of bark-lore and vine-song. Wise, but perhaps too cautious for what the Court needed now.

  And from Fire, of course, stood Durnan Eberflame. Broad-shouldered, his beard streaked with embers, his presence a furnace of pride. Father to Ruwan. Loyal to flame. A man whispered to have once turned the tide of a factional riot with a single, roaring speech.

  Vael signaled with a nod to the nearest Elder. “Let the candidates come forth,” she said. “And let their words kindle the path we must now walk.”

  The Earth faction stepped forward first.

  Moraen Stoneback stepped forward, his gait deliberate, as though each step was measured against the weight of history. The heavy stone torque around his neck clinked softly with every movement, and when he reached the speaking dais, he bowed low to Vael, then to the Elders and Cardinals.

  He spoke with a voice like shifting rock; gravelly, deep, unhurried.

  “Children of stone. Keepers of root and blood. I stand before you not in ambition, but in duty.

  My hands have turned the soil of ten provinces. My voice has stood beside our Chief through war and treaty. My memory reaches far; not because it is clever, but because it is grounded.

  Earth does not rise to be seen. Earth holds, binds, anchors. In times of wind and fire, it is the ground that keeps us from falling. And so must the Court.

  I do not come to promise glory. I come to promise constancy. I will not break under the pressure of factional winds. I will not chase applause like a fool chases lightning.

  If you elevate me, I will serve not as a flame, nor a tide, nor a blade, but as stone: steady, loyal, unshaken. The kind of strength you only notice when all else begins to crack.”

  He bowed once more, then turned and stepped back to the Earth faction’s semicircle of delegates; stoic nods meeting his return.

  Kareth Voln moved with the smooth confidence of a blade drawn clean from its sheath. His robes shimmered with metallic thread, and the sigil of the Metal faction gleamed like polished iron at his chest. When he reached the dais, he did not bow. Instead, he placed one gloved hand over his heart and inclined his head to Vael; a gesture more tactical than reverent.

  His voice rang out like a struck bell: crisp, cold, commanding. “Strength is not born. It is forged. In the crucible of hardship, in the clash of will and adversity; that is where Metal finds its form.

  I am Kareth Voln, son of ironmongers, scholar of tactics, and veteran of the Eastern Border Siege. I have studied our laws and tested them in fire. I have negotiated treaties, led defenses, and watched leaders falter because they lacked the edge to cut through chaos.

  The Court needs not only wisdom, but precision. Not only endurance, but decisiveness. The Metal faction believes in shaping the world, not waiting for it to shape us.

  I do not promise softness. I promise clarity.

  If chosen, I will strike true, with no hesitation. I will protect this tribe from within and without, with the same resolve I have brought to every field, every council, every blade I’ve lifted in the Eryshae name.

  Let those who fear change stand aside. Let those who seek strength step forward.” He offered a short, calculated bow to the room; exactly low enough to be respectful, no lower; and returned to the Metal delegation, the click of his armored heels echoing in the hush.