A few days later, in the capital city of Lumisera.
The council chamber, located in the western wing of the royal palace, stood solemn beneath its towering dome, whose curved arches resembled a captured sunburst. Today, it was more crowded than usual. At the center stood a long table carved from dark olive wood, set beneath the heart of the dome. Ten chairs formed a crescent around it—nine for the greatest powers of the Empire, and one, placed highest, reserved for the sovereign.
Seven of the seats had already been filled. Shafts of light streamed through stained-glass windows, casting a quiet glow on the noble crests glinting in silver and gold.
"It's been a while, Lord Gareth. I trust you've been well?"
The voice came from the left—Alecsandro Drazel, Marquess of the northeastern territories and current head of House Drazel. His forehead gleamed faintly under the light, and his gaze was sharp, calculating.
"Greetings, Marquess. By Luxaris' blessing, I remain well,"
Gareth Delacroix answered with customary ease.
The man, well into his seventies, had served under three sovereigns and remained one of the most influential figures among the nobility. He was the patriarch of House Delacroix, one of the Empire's four great and ancient houses.
"I wonder what matter has prompted Her Majesty to summon us so abruptly," Alecsandro continued, his fingers drumming softly on the armrest.
Gareth offered no reply. Instead, his eyes—seasoned and shrewd—swept the chamber, pausing briefly on two younger men: Theodore Lennox, the youngest marquess on the Council and Her Majesty's trusted advisor, and Lord Theron Vanderlyn, the Queen's uncle.
Clearly, this meeting was not merely about governance. There was something more—something tied to the royal family.
The great doors creaked open. All rose from their seats in unison.
Amara Castillon entered. Her black cloak, trimmed with gold, brushed silently against the marble floor. Her hair was bound in a silver pin, and her dark eyes gleamed with quiet resolve.
Behind her walked a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in steel armor, exuding a quiet yet unmistakable menace. His face was carved from stone, his gaze a deep and unreadable void.
Julian Halden—Commander of the Royal Army. One of the fiercest warriors ever forged on Astravelle soil.
His presence alone drew a chill into the room.
Something grave was about to be spoken.
The entire room immediately stood up, bowing in unison to their queen.
Amara's violet eyes swept across the chamber. Those present — without exaggeration — belonged to the highest echelon of the empire's elite.
She gave a slight nod, signaling for everyone to be seated.
Once the room had quieted, Amara spoke. Her voice wasn't loud, yet it resonated throughout the vaulted hall:
"Perhaps you're wondering why I've summoned this meeting."
No one answered. Not a single movement. Only cautious glances exchanged in silence.
Amara arched an eyebrow slightly, then accepted a letter from Reiner — her silent guard standing behind her.
"This was sent directly to the royal palace last night by Duke Valemont himself."
She placed the letter on the table, her eyes sweeping over the gathered officials.
"In it, he reports that several villages along the border have recently seen the emergence of unknown individuals suspected to be remnants of the Redmark tribes. These intruders have blended in with civilians, committing murder, theft, and arson."
A low murmur rippled through the chamber. Then, a voice — tinged with derision — cut through the silence:
"Pardon me, Your Majesty," said Alexsandro Drazel, rising with his hands folded before him, "but I find that rather… far-fetched."
Alexsandro, the current head of House Drazel, had just inherited the position after the death of his father — Lucius Drazel, a seasoned advisor to the late king. He often tried to appear experienced, though most saw it as tiresome posturing.
"The Redmark were eradicated during the last great war, led by the late King Baldric and Duke Caelan Valemont," he continued. "I believe… there may have been a misunderstanding."
A pointed cough interrupted him.
"Driven out. Not eradicated… Lord Alexsis."
Julian Halden's voice was cold — so sharp it felt like it could slice flesh without steel.
Silence fell. A few struggled to suppress a laugh.
"It's Alexsandro, my lord," he muttered, correcting him.
Julian didn't reply. His expression remained unchanged.
At that moment, a calm voice rose from the left side of the chamber.
"Your Majesty, if I may…"
Amara nodded.
The speaker was Bastian Ellowen — the even-tempered lord of the western province, known for his neutrality and rationality in political matters. He was one of the few council members widely respected.
"I believe Lord Dorian is a principled and prudent man. If he took it upon himself to send this letter, it means the situation has exceeded ordinary containment. With the military strength in the North, there's no reason to fear a handful of Redmark remnants… unless something truly unusual is happening."
This time, no one objected.
Amara remained silent, her hand gently tightening around the letter on the table. In her deep amethyst eyes, faint ripples began to stir.
Bastian had voiced the very thought she'd been considering.
What could possibly compel a man like Dorian Valemont to speak up personally?
"I concur with Lord Bastian," came a deep, steady voice — Gareth.
His support caused a brief pause in the room's energy.
Several eyes shifted toward him — a man long known for opposing nearly every proposal from the queen. Their tense relationship was no secret. Thus, his support now only deepened the sense of unease.
While the room remained uncertain, another voice emerged — calm and composed.
"Your Majesty, may I also offer a few thoughts?"
Theodore Lennox — the young marquis and the queen's right hand — rose from the front row. Though still young, his composed demeanor and sharp intellect made him a quiet force on the council.
"According to the letter, these individuals managed to infiltrate villages, strike swiftly, and escape before being detected."
He paused, his gaze scanning the room.
"So the question is — how did such criminals bypass the empire's tightly controlled borders without leaving a trace? Unless…"
His voice dropped a pitch.
"…they've been inside all along."
A few faces shifted uneasily.
Chairs creaked faintly.
"Or," came another sardonic voice, "unless someone is sheltering them."
It was Alexsandro Drazel again.
He stood once more, half-smirking.
"For example… perhaps Duke Valemont himself. How can we be certain he's not harboring these Redmark remnants to fabricate a crisis — one that would demand royal intervention?"
A loud slam on the table silenced the room. Julian stood abruptly and bowed toward Amara.
"A baseless accusation, Your Majesty."
His voice was resolute, every word deliberate and firm.
"I stood on the snowy frontlines with Dorian's father. I watched him fall defending the empire's borders. I won't hear anyone defame House Valemont in this chamber — unless they're ready to fight on that same battlefield."
Julian had once fought alongside Caelan Valemont and had watched Dorian grow up. He would not tolerate any slander against the bloodline of that noble warrior.
The tension in the room thickened. But this time, most eyes showed agreement.
Though Dorian Valemont was no friend to the capital's inner circle, his reputation — both in war and governance — was unquestionable.
A man of unyielding discipline and unwavering loyalty to the North.
Just then, a voice that had remained silent until now broke through — rough and sharp as honed steel.
"Then if they aren't Northerners… and if Valemont isn't hiding them…" Theron Vanderlyn — head of House Vanderlyn and Amara's maternal uncle — "…then might they be receiving help from within?"
The room plunged into silence.
Theron stood still, his expression grave, eyes dark.
"No one infiltrates multiple border villages, murders innocents, and vanishes without a trace… unless someone cleared the way for them. And if that is the case…"
His voice lowered, cutting like a blade through the stillness.
"…then we are not merely facing Redmark remnants. We are dealing with a traitor."
"What are you implying, Lord Theron?"Gareth's voice sliced through the tension like drawn steel. Though his tone remained composed, there was a glint of frost in his eyes, sharp and unwavering. "Are you suggesting there is a traitor among us?"
He did not raise his voice, nor did he rise from his seat.But the weight of his words settled heavily in the chamber. His gaze — cold, meticulous — swept across the table. "To speak of treachery here, in the High Council of Astravelle, is not just an accusation. It is an insult to the Empire itself."
A few nobles stirred, uncomfortable. The fire in the hearth seemed to falter, just briefly.
Yet Theron did not flinch. He met Gareth's stare, calm and unrelenting. "I suggest nothing," he said. "I merely suspect."
He paused, then added, "I've made no accusations. I've named no one. But is it so unthinkable? That someone who once swore fealty could live a double life?"He allowed that to linger, voice low but heavy with meaning."Swearing loyalty is easy. Honoring it in the shadows… that is the true test."
Silence.
Long, drawn silence.
Queen Amara leaned forward slightly, her fingers steepled before her, gaze unreadable.
"This is not a chamber for riddles," she said quietly. "If there is treachery, we will find it. Not through whispers or innuendo — but truth."
Neither Gareth nor Theron spoke again.But the air between them no longer cooled. It burned — silently, politically, perilously.
And yet, for all the pointed words and sharpened looks, the real danger did not sit at that table.Or if it did — no one had the courage to say the name.
Magnus Castillon.