71

  The circular council hall of Glory Castle shimmered with an ancient presence.

  High above, vaulted ceilings of white stone curved into a perfect dome, etched with phoenix feathers so fine they seemed alive. Hanging banners of all ten regions lined the walls—jade owls, mountain crests, ocean marlins, trogon birds, stags, roses, hawks—each gently swaying though no wind touched the air.

  The sound of murmuring knights echoed like the hush of a distant storm.

  At the heart of the hall stood a massive circular table made of pale silverwood, polished until it reflected the light like a frozen lake. The center of the table was empty—a hollow space meant only for the presiding appointee. A dais of white marble rose there, glowing faintly.

  And upon it stood Archmage Beren.

  He was a figure who commanded silence without a single word. His long blue robes flowed like calm water. Gold sigils ran down the sleeves and chest, shaped like falling stars. His silver hair fell neatly to his shoulders, framing a face that bore both age and power—sharp, intelligent, unwavering.

  But it was his eyes that held the hall:

  blue as crystal flame.

  blue as prophecy.

  A quiet, almost melodic hum of magic radiated from him—like the air itself was chanting.

  Two knights of Glory stood behind King Faelarion. Across the table, each king sat with their two highest knights at their back—silent, statuesque, armor shining like constellations.

  When Beren raised a hand, the room stilled.

  “Kings of Irin,” Beren began, his voice soft but carrying through the hall as though the walls themselves repeated him. “Thank you for granting me the honor to preside.”

  The kings bowed their heads.

  What followed were the diplomatic matters:

  —land disputes between Marlin and Iris resolved through trade;

  —Canarium requesting more gates;

  —negotiations of grain, gems, metals, trade routes, and educational alliances.

  Every voice echoed cleanly in the chamber. Knights shifted only slightly, boots scraping stone, armor clinking like distant chimes.

  When King Gildor demanded additional gates, Beren’s tone remained patient.

  “We can construct one,” Beren said, “but gates built where energy is scarce require gems tenfold. I must warn you: the cost will be immense.”

  The kings whispered among themselves. Even the echoes sounded regal in the hall.

  Then the last topic arrived.

  All voices ceased.

  Beren placed both hands on the silverwood table. The air dimmed as if holding its breath.

  “As you know,” he began, “the Phoenix Selection is near.”

  Murmurs rippled through the kings.

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  “But there is a truth we have ignored for centuries.”

  He looked around the table—each king sat straighter, sensing a shift. Even the knights behind them stiffened.

  “The bearers of the Phoenix die young,” Beren continued.

  Silence dropped like a stone.

  King Faelarion frowned deeply. King Draug’s jade eyes narrowed. King Kolvar leaned in.

  Beren continued, each word cutting sharp through the hall.

  “The last bearer died at forty. The one before at thirty-six. The one before at forty-two. We… kings of the elven race… live hundreds of years.”

  Whispers broke out—shocked, confused, uneasy.

  “Why,” Beren asked softly, “do all bearers die early?”

  Even King Vergilius of Mistral, the angel representative, grew still. King Revion of Vergara remained unreadable, his gold eyes glinting with something like understanding.

  No king answered.

  Beren’s next words struck like thunder.

  “Because… we are not druids.”

  The hall erupted. Chairs scraped. Voices clashed in disbelief.

  “What nonsense—”

  “Elves have carried the Phoenix for ages—!”

  “This is an offense—!”

  Beren lifted a single hand.

  Silence returned instantly—almost fearfully.

  “We are elves,” Beren said gently. “Graceful… powerful… but not made as the druids are made.”

  His voice softened.

  “The Phoenix does not simply choose strength. It chooses one who can withstand the weight of its Will.”

  He tapped the table once.

  “The Phoenix’s chose us.. I know.. but the weight is too much.”

  A chilling truth settled over the kings.

  Even King Orson of Dore, the calmest among them, tightened his jaw. King Alvin of Rose looked troubled. The knights behind them exchanged silent, uneasy glances.

  Beren stepped down from the dais, walking slowly around the table, robes whispering.

  “So this is my proposal: Instead of choosing a single bearer… let us select three.”

  Gasps, sharp and discordant, filled the hall.

  King Kolvar stood halfway from his chair.

  “Split the will of the Phoenix? How?!”

  The blue aura around Beren brightened.

  “Through a druid.”

  Whispers swelled again, but this time tinged with fear.

  King Alvin spoke, his voice strained. “Even if we locate a druid—how can we trust one? And splitting the Phoenix… would it not endanger the entire land?”

  Beren stopped walking.

  “I do not ask for trust. Only recognition of reality.”

  He turned to King Faelarion.

  “You all know of King Birog—the last dragon-pact druid. He told me… before he died… that this time would come.”

  The room froze.

  “The last dragon,” Beren said, “spoke through him. And the warnings he gave are now unfolding.”

  He lowered his head.

  “Much sooner than we wish.”

  Beren’s next words sent a vibration through the floor.

  “A man has drunk from the Goblet of Blood.”

  Every king turned stone-silent. Even the air shook slightly with the force of their disbelief.

  King Vergilius’ hands tightened on the table.

  King Draug leaned back, troubled.

  King Revion merely watched Beren, unmoving.

  Beren continued.

  “A human. They call him Barang.”

  A ripple moved around the table—fear, outrage, disbelief.

  “The Goblet was meant only for druids,” Beren said, voice low. “Even an elf would break under its power… yet a human dared drink it.”

  King Alon spoke with dread in his voice.

  “What happened to him?”

  Beren looked directly at him.

  “It still is a mystery.”

  The room felt colder.

  “And he is not alone,” Beren added. “He is followed by warriors they call Revenant.”

  At the mention of the Revenants, King Vergilius—the angel representative—closed his eyes as though sensing something dark approaching the borders of Irin.

  King Vergilius finally spoke.

  “How do we find a druid?”

  The question hung in the air like a sword suspended by a single hair.

  Every king turned to Beren.

  Beren lifted his hand, and a faint blue map projected above the table—lines of light forming rivers, valleys, mountains.

  “There was recent activity recorded near the Talon Peak,” Beren said. “A gate was used. And its imprint carries the signature of a druid lineage.”

  The kings leaned in.

  “The name is Durante.”

  King Orson’s brows shot up. “Durante? In my region?”

  Beren nodded slowly, solemnly.

  “He may help us… or he may refuse. But he is the only lead we have.”

  Silence swallowed the hall.

  The kings of Marlin, Iris, Brook, Valley, Rose—all looked at each other, realizing the same truth.

  The Phoenix Selection was coming.

  The Goblet was opened.

  A human bore cursed power.

  And only a druid could decide the next fate of Irin.

  Beren placed both palms on the table and bowed his head.

  “So I beg you, kings of Irin. If you can persuade this druid… do so.”