Chapter 62 – Oaths and Ashes
The council chamber beneath the Luther Citadel was reserved only for the highest among the Clan—those who bore the rank of Grand Master or above. Tonight, Jean stood at the head of that table, not as a girl fresh from the Academy, but as the flame-bearer of Severra.
The walls shimmered with aura-bound wards. Each candle flame whispered the names of the Luthers past, and above the table hovered the spectral crest of the Clan: a sword piercing through the sun.
Seated before her were Transcendents and elders, some of whom had known her since childhood. They saw the change in her now—eyes of burning resolve, and the divine weight of her presence.
"I propose an alliance," Jean said. "With the Magistery."
Gasps. Growls. A few even reached for the hilts of their blades.
"Blasphemy," spat Elder Dran. "The Magus Family has been our sworn rival since the founding! You'd court mages while our brothers and sisters fall in the Succession War?"
Jean stood tall. "Because this war is the distraction Antares wants."
That name silenced the room.
"I've seen him stir. I've felt him breathe. And while we waste ourselves in blood feuds and ancient grudges, he gathers his strength. The Iron Empress is working to awaken him. If she succeeds… no aura, no spell, no throne will matter."
A tense pause.
Then Elric asked, "Why the Magistery?"
Jean met his gaze. "Because they have something we do not: knowledge. Magic that predates the gods' silence. If we can put Aura and Magic together—combine blade and spell—we may stand a chance."
"A temporary alliance?" asked Nadra, skeptical.
Jean nodded. "Until Antares falls."
Elder Dran laughed bitterly. "And what would you trade? Secrets? Artifacts?"
Jean's eyes burned brighter. "My blood."
The room stilled.
"I will go to the Magistery alone. Offer them a pact. A Luther sword, blessed by a god, wielded by a Transcendent Emissary. In exchange, they lend us their Sages."
Whitney stepped from the shadows, silent and watchful.
"You would risk death," Nadra warned.
"I've done it before," Jean said simply.
Then, from the far end of the table, a voice older than all others spoke.
It was Grandfather Charles.
He had not entered, yet all turned when he did—his presence like a mountain cloaked in shadow. His eyes, red with age and fury, settled on Jean.
"I taught you to fight, not to beg, child."
Jean stared back, unflinching.
"And I learned how to win."
Charles studied her. Then, slowly, a faint smirk.
"Go then. Make your pact. But if you return empty-handed, I will remind you why I was once called Absolute Master."
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