Chapter 12 – When Storms Gather Part 1
The Blackstone Council
The obsidian pillars of the Blackflame Hall shimmered with firelight, casting long shadows over the polished stone floor. A hush lay over the chamber despite the presence of lords, warriors, and mages—each seated in semicircular formation beneath the sigil of the black-horned lion.
At the head of the room sat Earl Dunnel Adraels, regal and calm upon the central throne carved for three, flanked by Countess Daela and Lady Lyanna. Their eyes were not on each other, but on the young man who stood before them—tall, poised, and no longer just a son.
Don Adraels had returned from the Gorgon's Mire with the fire of conquest in his gaze.
In his gloved hand, he raised the Flamebound Medallion, its black jewel pulsing faintly with crimson veins beneath its surface. Caria stood just behind him, cloaked in silver and azure, her staff humming with restrained lightning. Leinara and Dvrik flanked her, quiet, alert, changed.
"The pendant speaks," Don said. "Not in words, but in memory. It was left to us by the Conqueror sealed beneath the Mire—a relic of our bloodline. It awakened only when we passed the trial."
A low murmur rippled through the hall.
"Trial?" asked Lord Rhedon Mournclay, the Adraels' old master of arms. "What kind of trial do you mean, lad?"
Don's voice remained even. "A magical realm. A test of self, forged from our own fears and failings. Only by confronting what we hide could we claim the relic. And only Adraels blood could unseal it."
Dunnel leaned forward. "You believe the Pale Wraith is connected?"
"I'm certain," Caria interjected, her voice smooth and sharp. "The magic used to imprison the Conqueror was arcane warfare far older than modern spells. The Wraith uses something similar—corrupted echoes of that power. It's feeding on bloodlines tied to conquest."
Lady Lyanna's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And the Tidors now wield that same hunger."
"Not only hunger," said Don. "They are aligning with it."
A silence followed, thick with the weight of truth.
Then, a footstep. A tall courier entered, cloak damp from the sea spray of the northern cliffs. He bowed and offered a scroll to Earl Dunnel.
"My lord. From Stormhearth. Sealed by **Lord Varant Griffor** himself."
Dunnel broke the wax. His eyes skimmed the parchment, then he passed it wordlessly to Lyanna. She read quickly, lips pursed, then nodded to Daela, who took it last.
"What does Griffor propose?" asked Daela aloud.
Lyanna answered. "A summit. Quiet, neutral. Held within the ancient Seawatch Temple. He invites the Adraels and House Aetheria to discuss... what he calls 'the succession storm.'"
"Stormhearth rarely stirs," muttered Rhedon. "This is more than words."
Don stepped forward. "Let me go."
"You?" Dunnel raised an eyebrow. "Not Asdrin?"
"Brother is needed here," Don replied. "To prepare our defenses, rally the cavalry, and deal with the Aetherian emissaries arriving tomorrow. But this—this requires diplomacy, trust, clarity of vision." He looked to his mothers. "And I have earned that trust."
Daela's lips curled in a faint smile. "You speak like a prince."
Lady Lyanna said nothing at first. Then: "He speaks like a lion who's felt fire."
Caria took Don's hand briefly, turning to the council. "If he goes, I go. House Thornf stands with him."
Dunnel leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Very well. You leave at dawn. You'll take Commander Stagri Veyeb and twenty of the Blackhorned Guard. No banners. No heralds. But bring back alliances… or news of war."
Don bowed his head. "As you command."
But the moment held more than duty. The Blackflame Hall had heard the quiet thunder of something greater: the boy was gone. A conqueror now stood in his place.
******
The halls of Erydon Keep—seat of the Warsenbrenn royal family—were vast, cold, and perfectly symmetrical. Every gilded arch and shadowed alcove spoke of control. Regal blue banners bearing the sigil of the Crowned Scaled Lion fluttered high above the polished stone floors. Between columns stood palace guards like silent statues, their black helms crowned with silver filigree, their spears gleaming.
In the Hall of Reflections, lit by enchanted orbs that glimmered like captured stars, King Medveick Warsenbrenn sat high upon his throne of blacksteel and crystal. At his side, Queen Yssara reclined on her own seat, slender fingers tracing the rim of a sapphire goblet. She said nothing, but her eyes—icy, intelligent—missed nothing.
Before them stood Lady Belmdia Tidor, daughter of Earl Ekarvel Tidor, dressed in a severe gown of ash-gray velvet lined with crimson thread. Her expression was perfectly composed, her voice smooth as she spoke with conviction.
"…and so, Your Majesties, it is evident that House Adraels has overreached. They consort with ancient forces, shelter a boy with ambitions beyond his station, and have entwined themselves with House Thornf's mageblood. The balance in Helimdor teeters. Our victory over House Hailch was a necessary correction, not aggression."
King Medveick was unmoved. His expression was unreadable. "Correction," he said, voice as smooth and hard as the blade of a scepter. "Or expansion?"
Belmdia did not flinch. "Expansion… with loyalty. My father believes in a Helimdor that does not fracture under the weight of idealism. The Adraels... they gather swords and spells in the dark. Is the Crown not concerned?"
Queen Yssara leaned slightly forward. "And what of the reports that a Pale Wraith walked beside your forces at the fall of Hailch? That your banners marched unopposed beside a thing out of legend?"
"A battlefield illusion," Belmdia replied calmly. "The Thornfs are known to twist fear into phantoms. Perhaps House Adraels plays the same game now."
King Medveick's eyes narrowed. "Games, indeed. And yet the Adraels stand stronger than ever. This Don—he survives the Gorgon's Trial, binds Thornf's lightning daughter, and speaks as if the future kneels before him."
A flick of fingers summoned a palace steward who placed a crystal scroll on the dais—a transcript of the Blackstone Council, delivered in secret by a royal informant within House Aetheria.
Queen Yssara's gaze lingered on one passage. "So they plan to resist… together."
Belmdia stepped closer. "Then strike first. Break them before their roots tangle further. Let House Tidor act with the Crown's blessing. Let us remove the rot."
But Medveick lifted a hand, silencing her. "Not yet."
From the shadowed colonnade emerged Crown Prince Strelm Warsenbrenn, regal in deep blue and silver, cold calculation in his bearing. He resembled his father in stature but bore none of his father's warmth.
"They are not yet ripe for destruction," Strelm said. "Let the boy believe he is gathering strength. Let Thornf and Aetheria expose themselves. We will not strike the nest until all its birds return."
Queen Yssara's tone turned speculative. "And if he truly awakens the ancient flame?"
"Then he becomes useful," the Prince answered. "Or disposable."
The King rose slowly, the stained-glass window behind him catching the stormlight. Beyond it, the sea boiled under thunderclouds—ominous and gathering.
"Send emissaries to Griffor and Aetheria," Medveick commanded. "Remind them of their oaths. Pressure their trade. Whisper in their courts. Let the noble houses tremble—but let them not see where the blow will fall."
He stared into the darkening horizon.
"Helimdor burns at both ends," he murmured. "Let's see which house chokes first."