The council chamber smelled of regret.

  Not rot, not decay—something subtler. Cold incense clung to the marble, threaded through with wax smoke and rain-soaked stone. Black mourning drapes hung between the pillars like funeral shrouds that no one had yet dared to take down. They dulled the chamber’s grandeur, swallowing light and sound alike. Pools of melted candle wax had hardened along the edges of the floor, pale scars where grief had burned too long.

  Outside, rain slid down the tall windows in thin, uneven lines, distorting the capital beyond into a blur of torchlight and shadow.

  Emperor Gregor Willinghelm sat at the head of the table.

  The crown weighed heavier than it had a week ago.

  He had worn it through war councils before—through famine debates, through the War of the Spear, through bloodshed that had reshaped the Empire—but tonight it pressed down on him with a different cruelty. Stewart Spendal’s funeral still lived behind his eyes: the glass casket, the silent crowds, the Mage Tower bells tolling until his bones ached with the sound.

  Cristina sat beside him, hands folded, posture immaculate. To any watching, she was calm, composed, every inch the Empress. Only Gregor could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened and loosened in small, unconscious motions.

  The doors boomed shut.

  The sound echoed longer than it should have.

  “We will begin,” Gregor said.

  No one spoke. No one shifted. Silence pressed in, thick and uncomfortable.

  Around the great stone table sat the living pillars of the Empire—men and women who commanded armies, magic, faith, and law. And yet none of them looked whole.

  Draumbean stood rather than sat, his staff resting against the floor at his side. The orange in his beard was threaded with fresh grey, his eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. He had not removed his mourning band since Spendal’s death. Across from him sat Xavert, rigid, composed, his bronze veil hiding half his face, his hands folded with deliberate precision.

  Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef leaned forward, forearms on the table, his face drawn tight with restrained anger. General Evangeline sat to his right, spine straight, expression hard as tempered steel. General Bhraime Montclef shifted in his chair, mustache bristling as if he were already bracing for an argument.

  High General Baraten sat near Gregor—his first return to council since the Name Day attack. Where his left arm had once been, there was now only a reinforced brace of steel and leather, where a massive shield could be permanently mounted where flesh had been torn away. He did not hide it. He let it rest openly against the table, a reminder of what had been taken.

  Lord Lucien Greystone sat stiff-backed, calculating eyes flicking from face to face. Nylla the Green reclined slightly, fingers steepled, watching with a predator’s patience. Helena Stormbringer sat beside her, quiet, attentive, her gaze shifting subtly between Draumbean and Xavert.

  Lord Chronos Chessire sat rigid and immaculate, his Templar insignia gleaming coldly. Archbishop Luc de Presti sat opposite him, robes pristine, hands folded as if in perpetual prayer. Behind her chair stood Knight Commander Ana Mikinkoff of the Blood Rose Order, refusing the seat offered her, posture unyielding.

  Witch Commander Roland Strongmore sat last, weathered face grim, eyes heavy with truths that never translated well into polite discussion.

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  Gregor drew a slow breath.

  “Two days ago,” he said, “we buried Archmage Stewart Spendal.”

  No one interrupted him.

  “A man who guided this Empire through plague, rebellion, and the brink of collapse. A man whose counsel saved my reign more times than I care to count.”

  His gaze drifted briefly, unavoidably, to Xavert.

  “His absence leaves a wound,” Gregor continued. “One that cannot be stitched closed by decree or replaced by ambition.”

  Xavert’s jaw tightened.

  “We grieve,” Gregor said, voice firming, “but the world does not pause for our sorrow. Threats gather while we mourn. That ends tonight.”

  He turned to Bhraime.

  “General Montclef. Speak.”

  Bhraime pushed his chair back with a scrape of stone and rose heavily to his feet. He planted both hands on the table, leaning forward like a man bracing against a storm.

  “The south is burning,” he said bluntly. “Not in raids. Not skirmishes. In occupation.”

  Murmurs rippled through the chamber.

  “Green skin warbands are uniting,” Bhraime continued. “Flying the same marks. Moving with purpose. They’re torching granaries, choking trade roads, killing tax collectors and priests alike.”

  Lord Greystone frowned. “Orcs raid every generation.”

  “These aren’t raids,” Bhraime snapped. “They’re cutting supply arteries. They’re choosing targets that hurt.”

  “And your assessment?” Gregor asked.

  “They’re being led,” Bhraime said. “By something smarter than the rest.”

  Nylla’s lips twitched. “Or someone.”

  Bhraime nodded. “Send me south. Give me authority to raise levies and reinforce border legions. We hit them hard before they dig in.”

  Lord Greystone shook his head. “You risk stripping defenses elsewhere.”

  “We risk losing the south entirely if I don’t act,” Bhraime shot back. “Those cities feed half the Empire.”

  Gregor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “You will have command. Full authority.”

  Bhraime inclined his head once, satisfied.

  Gregor turned to Evangeline.

  “Lustrumburg.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “Duke Bournere has gone silent,” she said. “Summons unanswered. Messengers not returned. His banners still fly, but no word reaches the capital.”

  “Unacceptable,” Chronos said flatly.

  “Suspicious,” Ernesto added.

  Gregor’s gaze hardened. “You will ride south. Quietly. Determine whether his silence is defiance, coercion, or something worse.”

  “And if he has turned?” Evangeline asked.

  “Then you will do what is necessary,” Gregor replied.

  She nodded once.

  Baraten cleared his throat. The sound was harsh, deliberate.

  “Before we move on,” he said, “the council must hear of Stohl.”

  The room shifted.

  “General Ezabella Rell engaged an undead host outside the city,” Baraten said. “The same kind that obliterated Brechtzund.”

  A sharp intake of breath moved through the chamber.

  “She held the walls,” Baraten continued. “Broke their advance. Drove them back. Stohl stands.”

  “And Brechtzund?” Xavert asked coolly.

  “Gone,” Baraten snapped. “Reduced to ash and bone. Its loss crippled our grain supply.”

  Xavert leaned forward. “Undead appear from time to time. Rogue necromancers—”

  Baraten slammed his shield-arm into the table.

  “Enough,” he roared. “An army marched on Brechtzund. Disciplined. Coordinated. You think that coincidence?”

  “There is still no proof—” Xavert began.

  Draumbean spoke quietly. “There are scrolls.”

  The chamber stilled.

  “Silent Monks scrolls,” Draumbean said. “One has surfaced. Possibly more. I am in contact with the one who found it.”

  Xavert’s eyes flashed. “Where?”

  “That information is not yet for this council,” Draumbean replied evenly.

  “You expect blind faith?” Xavert snapped. “You offer no proof, no location—”

  “I offer caution,” Draumbean said. “And time.”

  “You are making it up,” Xavert said sharply. “You cannot prove Malekith’s return.”

  Baraten surged to his feet. “Are you mad? Brechtzund fell. Stohl nearly followed. You think the dead rise in such numbers by chance?”

  Gregor raised his hand. “Enough.”

  The room froze.

  “It is not coincidence,” the emperor said. “Draumbean will inform us when the scroll is secured. That is sufficient.”

  Xavert clenched his fists—but said nothing.

  Gregor leaned back, exhaustion visible now.

  “Now,” he said, “back to my cousin.”

  A heavy silence followed.

  “He missed Name Day,” Ernesto said carefully. “That alone was troubling.”

  “And now his silence,” Baraten added. “Could be tied to the green skins.”

  “Or something darker,” Nylla murmured.

  Arguments erupted voices overlapping, tempers flaring. Accusations of negligence. Of ambition. Of fear.

  Hours passed.

  Candles burned low.

  By the time the council adjourned, no one felt victorious.

  Only aware.

  The Empire was under siege.

  And the night was far from over.