Mortals measure loss by the seats left empty at their tables.

  A chair that once held a father, now gathering dust. A place set for a son who will never return. A threshold kept clear for a traveler who forgot the way home. The living fold themselves around these absences, as if the wood itself could become a shrine to grief.

  I have watched families do this across centuries—keeping chairs, keeping hope, keeping wounds open long past the point of healing. They think it honors the dead. But the dead care nothing for chairs. It is the living who cannot let go, who fill empty seats with their own sorrow until the weight of it bends the table itself.

  In grand halls, the tradition grows even more foolish. Councils and courts leave chairs for the fallen, the missing, the disgraced, as if power itself might flow back into the carved wood with velvet cushions. They tell themselves it is respect, tradition, continuity.

  But I know what it truly is: fear. Fear that removing a chair admits finality. Fear that closing ranks means accepting the hole left behind. Fear that one day, their own seat will stand empty, and no one will keep it.

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  The Veil whispers — 11 months before The Convergence

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  In the heart of Wolfpit Castle, the walls seemed to shudder at the dread creeping into the night. Supreme Grand Meister Hortew, who stood alone in the Council chamber, saw it—that fleeting vision of death, like a shadow passing the moon. Yet, it barely hinted at the true darkness lurking in the night. With his stature and character, one might think he'd grown used to such omens. He hadn’t. They only grew heavier as Hortew aged.

  The chamber stretched wide. Its vaulted ceiling hung with banners of seven meisterdoms—each a fragment of pride stitched into cloth, as if fabrics could contain egos that large. Once, this hall rang with powerful voices that shaped the continent of Nareen. Tonight, it was silent, save for Hortew’s breathing and the occasional groan of stones.

  Hortew’s eyes drifted across the circular narra table. Its reddish surface polished by decades of arguments, compromises, and betrayals. The wood had been wiped more with broken promises than polishing cloth— with palms in desperation, fists in rage, and foreheads meeting the wood in exasperation. Perhaps, it is one of the most honest pieces of wood in the castle.

  As Hortew circled it, he thought of the great men and women who once sat there: the Grand Meisters, the advisers, the visionaries, and of course, the schemers—those quiet architects of ruin who poisoned every word they uttered.

  He remembered those moments of temper when air flared so hot, the room itself seemed to quiver. And those quieter moments when silence weighed heavier than steel.

  “Empty chairs…” he contemplated as his eyes scanned the table.

  “Sometimes make far better councilors,” his bitter but truthful thought as his seasoned hand trailed the smooth backrest.

  Each step, each sigh, echoing in the vast chamber.

  His son’s chair, Kendal’s, still stood with his crest untouched, though the man himself had vanished for almost twelve long years already. Twelve years, and Hortew could not strip it away. Time does not dull every wound; some calcify into bones. He had grown used to it, he told himself, but Hortew’s lie to appease himself never held. Lies rarely do. Comfort is poor excuse, and Hortew knew it.

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  Across, Grand Meister Cedran Morvane's chair caught his eye. He had just seen the moon scholar the other day—ink-stained fingers gesturing over charts, with that fierce intensity burning in his eyes as he spoke of celestial patterns shifting. For a brief moment, Hortew saw him there again, as if memory itself had conjured him back into that seat. Then shadow flickered across it, coldness passing through as if the chair itself had chilled. Hortew blinked, and the vision was gone... but the unease lingered.

  The unease did not come from phantoms alone. The moon scholar walked paths of knowledge few dared to trace, and Hortew himself had sent him chasing truths. That vision was no trick of tired eyes.

  He tightened his grip on the Narra wood, as if he could steady the world through sheer force of will. Duty, he told himself, is a chain of iron—unforgiving and unyielding. Chains were always praised that way, by men who thought wearing them made them noble. And Hortew wore his proudly, even as its weight crushed him. Yet tonight, something deeper gnawed at him. A bond through blood, a ripple through magic itself. Somewhere within the castle, his grandson Iakob also stirred uneasily.

  Thirteen-year-old Iakob tossed restlessly in his bed chamber, unaware of the shadows chasing them. The silence of Wolfpit was never so loud as it was tonight. He lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling, where candlelight cast uneasy shadows. The axe, Headhunter, rested within arm’s reach. A comforting relic on most nights.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, it pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

  He rolled over and studied the weapon, tracing the dragon-scale reinforcement reflecting the flame like fragments of stars. His father had once wielded it against Baku, an ancient being who had faded into various legends, folklores, and myths until he reappeared during The Sundering Eclipse. And what was he? A boy who could barely perform basic conjuring without bruising himself.

  While doubting about the very essence of his lineage, a subtle vibration pulsed through the axe, stirring the air. He couldn't explain it, but the unease swelling within him was consuming his thoughts, like an instinctive alarm worse than the charred bitterness of burnt herbs.

  Tomorrow, the Council would convene, councilors from across the seven meisterdoms filling the chamber. They would discuss matters of trade, alliances, Convergence, and what Iakob dreaded the most—the acceptance of incoming young conjurers into the Conjuring Academy.

  It was a time when many would be judged for their potential and prowess. Iakob thought he wasn’t there yet, still under Grex’s stern hand and occasional lessons, but the thought of one day being measured against his bloodline pressed on him like a blade at his throat.

  Everyone expected so much from him: to master the axe, to lead someday, to be one of the most powerful conjurers. His family's legacy echoed in his mind, each one a reminder that he was meant to be more than ordinary.

  But what if he couldn't live up to that legacy? What if he was just... ordinary? In houses that feed on legend, the word ordinary is like a curse worse than death.

  As his thoughts wandered, a sudden, violent pulse erupted from Headhunter. The axe ignited with brilliant light and unleashed a devastating tremor, throwing Iakob across the room. He slammed against the stone wall with brutal force, the impact driving the wind from his lungs. His breath left him in a sharp gasp as pain jolted through his body. Darkness edged his vision, pulling him under before he could even cry out.

  The tremor reached Hortew in the Council chamber like a physical blow. The searing magical reverberation rippled through the castle's ancient stones. The force drove him to his knees. His weathered hand once again found his chest. The bond between grandfather and grandson had always been strong in the silence, but tonight it felt like a curse.

  Gasping, he tried to rise but his legs betrayed him. His vision blurred as he collapsed beside the circular table, his cheek pressing against the cold stone floor. From this angle, all he could see were the chair legs—Cedran's empty seat directly in his line of sight, a stark reminder of how alone they truly were.

  His breathing came in ragged gasps, each a struggle against the weight pressing down on his chest. The shadows in the chamber seemed to deepen, creeping closer as if drawn by his weakness. They moved with purpose, to Hortew’s vision—omens gathering, pooling around the empty chairs.

  Tomorrow's Council meeting loomed in his mind—how could he face it like this? How could he lead when he couldn't even stand? The shadows whispered of failure, of bloodlines ending, of chairs that would remain forever empty.

  Empty chairs, as Hortew had told himself, sometimes made far better councilors—less mouths to argue, less hands to fumble, less ego to stroke. But tonight, staring at Cedran’s seat wreathed in shadow, he understood the folly in that comfort: every empty seat carried its own weight, a silence more damning than any argument. Silence was never kinder than truth, it only lingered a little longer.

  As consciousness slipped away, Hortew felt it—the same wrongness that touched Cedran, now reaching into the very heart of Wolfpit Castle. The Convergence was accelerating, and they were running out of time. The shadows closed in, and Hortew's world faded to black, leaving only the echo of tomorrow's obligations and the weight of tonight's revelations in his vision.

  From the Records of the Sundering: