Chapter 56: A World at Prayer

  Aeor and Zoey changed attire before they departed.

  Aeor's clothing resembled the ceremonial garb he had worn in Sar'Vareth when they set out for the ancestral seat of the Solenar. This version, however, sacrificed ornament for function. The fine embellishments were gone, replaced by reinforced seams and layered plates designed for movement and impact. It was ceremonial only in silhouette. In purpose, it was built for combat.

  Zoey adjusted her own gear in silence.

  They took flight soon after, escorted through the Cradle atop Avians. Aeor had traversed these halls countless times over the past two days. Their scale remained disorienting, their design ancient beyond measure, yet something had changed in a way he had never expected.

  They had started to feel familiar.

  They flew on in silence for another quarter hour. Aeor felt the tension pressing down, not only from Zoey and their escort, but from the Cradle itself. The air carried it, tight and expectant, as though the structure knew what was about to unfold.

  At last, their formation turned right at a cruciform chamber and entered a new hall.

  In size and construction, it matched the others. In purpose, it did not.

  Hundreds of Avians were gathered at the far end of the hall, clustered beneath the vaulted stone. A dozen handlers and guards waited among them, motionless and alert. Beyond them stood a set of open doors.

  They were modest compared to the colossal threshold that led to Vaelkar's domain, but they carried their own authority. Not divine. Deliberate.

  Beyond lay the chamber within, smaller in proportion and deliberate in its design. Like the doors themselves, it had not been built to host dragons.

  It had been built to hold people.

  The hall opened into a broad, rectangular chamber carved entirely from dark basalt. Pale blue lantern light washed across the walls and ceiling, refracted through etched scripture that ran in disciplined bands along the stone. The light did not warm the space. It clarified it.

  Seating filled most of the chamber.

  Closest to the entrance, the lower rows were arranged in straight lines facing forward, their orientation fixed toward the far end of the hall. These seats formed the foundation of the assembly, occupied by nobles from the major houses, clergy, and representatives drawn from across Sol'Karenth.

  Beyond them, the arrangement shifted.

  Along both sides of the chamber, two long columns of seating ran parallel to the central floor. These benches were turned inward, facing each other across the open space.

  At the far end stood the final section.

  A raised tier of seats faced directly toward the entrance, elevated above the rest. This section alone remained empty, reserved for those who would preside, facing the hall itself.

  Aeor, Zoey, and their escort landed at the edge of the hall and dismounted without a word.

  Handlers and guards turned toward them, their movement rippling outward before settling into stillness. Heads bowed in quiet acknowledgment. Aeor inclined his own in return, Zoey mirroring the gesture beside him.

  No words were exchanged. None were needed.

  They passed through the threshold together. Their escort remained outside with the guards as they entered the chamber alone.

  The effect was immediate.

  Conversation faltered, then collapsed entirely. What had been a low chorus of voices dwindled into soft whispers as every gaze turned toward Aeor.

  He felt it again, the unease that followed him now. Fear lingered in their eyes, thinly veiled behind decorum. Aside from a handful of council members, none spoke to him. They only watched.

  Part of him despised that silence, the distance it imposed. Yet there was nothing he could do about it.

  He wondered if this was to be his new reality, then drew a quiet breath and set the thought aside.

  Across the chamber, an arm rose and waved sharply above the crowd.

  Aeor saw it at once.

  Dregor.

  Zoey noticed a heartbeat later. She gave Aeor a brief look, then peeled away and moved toward Dregor, while Aeor continued forward alone.

  Familiar faces emerged as he walked.

  Korren was present. Salthar and Pevthar were not. They had remained behind in Sar'Vareth. Rorick was here as well, along with several others from their talon. Nearly half of them bore violet in their eyes now.

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  Erith was not among them.

  Her absence left a bitter edge in Aeor's thoughts.

  He continued on until he reached the middle section of the chamber. Velora sat there, composed and still.

  Aeor had opposed joining the council. He held no illusions of leadership, no belief that he possessed the skill or experience required for such deliberations. There were others far better suited to speak, to decide.

  Yet his presence had been deemed necessary. Not for counsel, but for what he bore. His essence, and the shadow of Vaelkar bound to him.

  Velora had been drawn into the council for similar reasons, bound by her connection to Morvaketh. Aeor suspected she did not resent the role. If anything, she appeared to settle into it with ease.

  He took the seat beside her.

  Time passed as additional figures filtered into the chamber. Seats filled. The murmur of quiet conversation rose once more.

  At last, a short horn sounded.

  Every head turned toward the entrance.

  Serenya and Vaireth entered together, their advisors a single step behind them. As they crossed the threshold, the massive doors began to close, stone sliding against stone until the chamber was sealed.

  They walked the length of the hall without pause and took their places on the raised seating facing the assembly.

  Silence settled, deliberate and complete.

  Serenya and Vaireth each produced a small statue of Sol and placed them upon the table before them.

  Then they spoke in unison.

  "Sol guide us. We bear witness in your name."

  A brief pause followed.

  Then Vaireth spoke alone.

  "Commence."

  For the next hour, reports were delivered from across Sol'Karenth.

  The major cities had begun consolidating noncombatants within central sanctuaries. Clergy and those capable of healing were stationed among them, contingencies in place should the devastation of the thirteenth's first stirring repeat itself.

  Talons had been formed and dispatched throughout the realm, each serving as the eyes of the world. Each carried a Vaelirra.

  The strategy was brutally simple.

  Minimize losses. Observe. Respond when the enemy made itself known.

  It was all they could do.

  Two talons remained in transit, bound for distant Cradles in search of rising ancients.

  From there, discussion turned to familiar ground, revisiting tactics and battle strategies already debated. As the hours wore on, more concerns surfaced, each demanding attention, each deserving more time than they could afford.

  But time was not theirs to spend freely.

  In the end, necessity overruled deliberation, and the council gathering was brought to a close.

  Yet no one rose when the council ended.

  For a moment, the chamber remained as it was. Hundreds seated, breath held, the air still carrying the weight of what had been said. Then, as if guided by a rule older than the council itself, hands moved in unison.

  Small pieces of cloth were drawn out and laid across open palms.

  Those who could command flame sparked the fabric with practiced ease. The rest, Aeor among them, produced slender vials filled with a translucent liquid.

  They uncorked them and poured a single measure onto the cloth. The fabric caught, flame blooming without resistance.

  Aeor felt the heat brush his skin. It was comforting rather than painful.

  One by one, eyes closed.

  Those who held Sol in their faith turned their thoughts toward him, seeking guidance for what lay ahead.

  Aeor did not pray to Sol.

  Instead, his thoughts drifted to the guardians of his own world, the Véurr. Distant, unseen, yet no less real to him than Sol was to them.

  When the last ember died, the chamber stirred.

  Eyes opened. Hands lowered.

  Aeor paused as he took in the hall.

  It had changed.

  The pale blue glow of lanterns and etched scripture had softened into amber, as though the stone itself had drawn closer to fire. From the ceiling above, soft motes of amber drifted downward.

  No one had expected this.

  Aeor saw it in their faces. The stillness. The disbelief. A few of the more devout bowed their heads, tears tracing quiet paths down their cheeks. Others whispered prayers of gratitude to Sol, voices barely louder than breath.

  The moment held.

  Aeor turned slightly and caught Velora murmuring beside him, her voice low and sincere.

  "The power of faith," she said, "is quite beautiful."

  In time, Serenya and Vaireth rose from their seats. Their advisors followed, and together they moved toward the exit. Aeor and the others waited until they had passed before falling in behind them. Slowly, the chamber began to empty, the amber glow lingering even as footsteps faded.

  Their procession took flight soon after, moving through the Cradle in ordered formation. Nearly a quarter hour passed before light bled through fractured stone ahead.

  Where Aurel'Tharan had once stood now lay a massive opening to the world above.

  As they emerged, Aeor took in the sight before him.

  Clouds smothered the sky, casting a muted gloom across the land below.

  On either side of the collapsed city, two vast battalions stood in formation, each numbering close to a thousand. Soldiers lined the broken ground in disciplined ranks. Avians gathered beside them, wings folded and restless. Banners of Sol were held high, their gold and crimson dulled beneath the overcast light, yet no less resolute.

  Above, dragons roared.

  They circled the gathering with slow, commanding sweeps, their presence pressing down like a weight upon the world. Beyond them, atop the nearest peaks of Quethal, Vaelkar lay at rest. His immense form dwarfed the mountain beneath him. Around him lingered three other Empyrean Wyrmkin, diminished in his shadow, yet vast all the same.

  As Aeor and the others emerged from the Cradle, Naeysar lifted her head and roared.

  The sound rolled across the mountains, deep and absolute. In its wake, the clouds began to part, drawn aside as though answering a decree older than the sky itself. Light spilled through the widening break, and Sol's radiance poured down upon those gathered below, washing banners, armor, and stone alike in gold.

  For a heartbeat, Aeor simply stood and took it in.

  Then he reached for his parchment.

  Time Until The Reckoning: 20 Seconds

  Lyra Ashborne

  Lyra crested the hill, and the ocean spread out before her.

  It was not the gentle blue she remembered. The winds had risen, and their fury showed in the water below. Waves churned and broke against one another, dark and restless. Over the past few hours, the weather had turned with unsettling speed. Lyra lifted her gaze to the sky, where heavy clouds rolled, thick with motion and threat.

  "I see it," a feminine voice said beside her, pointing slightly westward toward the coast.

  On the shore below, a small vessel waited, its hull dark against the surf. The banner of Kuren'Vareth snapped from its mast, a settlement known more for fields and harvests than storms or seas.

  Lyra glanced at Ulrek. "Are we certain this is the path we want to take?" she asked quietly. "Crossing the ocean in weather like this. Wouldn't the skies be safer?"

  Ulrek did not answer.

  Instead, she turned, her attention drawn to a small figure standing among them. A blindfold covered the girl's eyes as she held her sister's hand, fingers curled tight. One by one, the others followed Ulrek's gaze. Even Kaeric fell silent.

  Wind pressed against Lyra, steady and insistent, pulling at her cloak as though urging them forward.

  Memories rose unbidden. The depth she had sensed behind that cloth. The weight of it.

  It frightened her still.

  Mayla did not speak at once.

  Then, softly but without doubt, she answered.

  "It is the only way."

  No one argued.

  They stood together a moment longer, watching the ocean surge beneath the darkening sky.

  Lyra reached for her parchment.

  Time Until The Reckoning: 10 Seconds

  Kalvaxus

  Kalvaxus ascended the spiraling stairs of the spire at an unhurried pace.

  Behind him, bells tolled across all of Sar'Vareth. He did not slow for them. Their sound washed past him, distant and meaningless. Beneath that indifference, something else stirred. Anticipation. It had been far too long, and now, at last, the shackles that bound him stood on the verge of breaking.

  He continued upward.

  Partway along the ascent, an unconscious soldier lay slumped against the stone. Kalvaxus stopped and placed two fingers lightly against the man's forehead.

  Bronze script bloomed across the guard's skin, intricate and absolute. A moment later, it shattered.

  The soldier withered where he lay, flesh collapsing inward, bone turning brittle, until nothing remained but dust. The rising wind caught it and carried it away without ceremony.

  Kalvaxus resumed his climb.

  At the summit, the spire opened into a covered chamber beneath a vaulted roof. Half-walls ringed the perimeter, stone rising to waist height before giving way to open air. Beyond them stretched the view of Sar'Vareth's harbor and the dark waters beyond.

  Two chairs waited at the edge of the platform.

  One stood empty. The other was already occupied.

  "How did it go?" Cyrus asked, his gaze fixed on the water beyond the harbor.

  "As expected," Kalvaxus replied, taking the empty seat beside him.

  He withdrew a small golden pocket watch and opened it.

  Time Until The Reckoning: 3 Seconds

  The wind rose.

  2

  The bells fell silent.

  1

  The Reckoning was upon them.

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