Present Day…

  **Kvalheim Empire; Capital City: Tolkin – Midday**

In Whitehall Palace with the Privy Council

The marble halls of Whitehall Palace shimmered beneath the midday sun, velvet banners heavy with the empire’s sigils. Outside, the grand clock tower tolled — Dong… dong… dong… — its iron voice rolling across Tolkin, pressing against the chamber walls like judgment. Within, incense curled through the Privy Council chamber as advisors gathered, their whispers sharp with suspicion and ambition.

The grand council chamber was heavy with voices, each one layered with urgency and suspicion. Sunlight slashed through tall windows, dust motes swirling in the beams like restless spirits. The great clock hammered its rhythm: tick… tock… tick… tock. Servants shuffled along the edges, trays rattling faintly, the scent of ink and wax mixing with the musk of velvet curtains.

Thud! A German advisor slammed his fist against the oak table, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat. “You can’t be serious! Vladimir has already summoned a thousand heroes!” “Majestät, Vladimir hat bereits tausend Helden gerufen!” [Your Majesty, Vladimir has already summoned a thousand heroes!] His words carried alarm, but his darting eyes betrayed envy.

The French advisor leaned forward, beard trembling, goblet clinking softly against the wood. “Mais, Sire, n’est-ce pas une folie? Ils ont invoqué le maudit… et tant de vies seront sacrifiées.” [But, Sire, is this not madness? They have summoned the cursed one… and so many lives will be sacrificed.] His voice quavered, but the way his knuckles whitened around the cup hinted at ambition.

The Polish elder’s voice rumbled low, steady as stone. “Panie, proroctwo mówi o tysiącu bohaterów. To waży więcej niż nasze sentymenty.” [My lord, the prophecy speaks of a thousand heroes. That carries more weight than our sentiment.] His words were calm, but his eyes gleamed — hunger disguised as loyalty.

The Dutch advisor shook his head, nasal tone sharp. “Majesteit, dit is gevaarlijk. Het rijk kan niet nog een vloek verdragen.” [Majesty, this is dangerous. The realm cannot endure another curse.] His warning was clear, but the faint curl of his lips was the clue: disaster could be opportunity.

From the far end, Rashid’s Persian voice flowed like smoke, curling around the chamber. “Shahanshah, in rah be suye marg ast. Qahramanan be khun faro-rikhteh mishavand.” [Emperor, this path leads to death. Heroes will be drowned in blood.] His words lingered like incense, but his faint smile betrayed desire.

The chamber swelled with unease until Silus raised his hand. Bang! His palm struck the table, goblets rattling, parchment fluttering. “Enough! We cannot make this decision rashly. Demons are knocking at our borders. I have had visions…”

“Visions of what, Emperor Silus?” one advisor pressed, voice sharp as a dagger.

Silus’s black eyes narrowed. “Visions of death, fire, destruction, plagues, demons. The veil is breaking—the second coming. When the skies weep with blood and flame, two souls as one shall rise to claim their fate.”

The words hung heavy, like smoke choking the chamber. Advisors muttered fragments under their breath: “One, dark and with golden eyes of fire…” “The serpent whispers as shadows call…” “It is unity that will break this thrall…”

Percival’s voice cracked, sweat dripping down his temple. Drip… drip. “So, you would rather let thousands die, only to find one in a million? This hypocrisy cursed us—cut us off from the other realms!” His words rang raw, but his trembling hands betrayed fear. Almost unconsciously, he whispered: “Through sacrifice, their bond will endure, and dawn will rise to illuminate the way…”

Silus closed his eyes, the weight of years pressing against him. For a moment, he saw himself as a boy — chasing shadows in palace gardens, laughter echoing like bells. That innocence was gone, smothered beneath prophecy and crown. His voice dropped, heavy as stone. “This is our only hope. The time is drawing near, and that woman warned us—the war approaches. We must prepare.”

“You speak of Ariadne Vance? The lost child… the one tied to the saint?” asked the eldest council member, his Dutch words hushed. “Het verloren kind… verbonden met de heilige?” [The lost child… bound to the saint?]

“Yes,” Silus replied quietly. “Her.”

“The meeting is adjourned,” Silus declared, his voice slicing through the chamber like a blade. Clang! The sound of chairs scraping against stone followed, advisors, rising in uneasy clusters.

Servants exchanged nervous glances as they cleared goblets and parchment, their hands trembling. One muttered under his breath, barely audible: “It is the thousandth that faces either calamity… or the survival of the realm.”

The chamber emptied, leaving Silus alone. The silence pressed against him, thicker than the voices had been. His fingers toyed with a coin, spinning it. Clink… clink… clink. For a heartbeat, his gaze softened — the faint echo of a boy’s game, of innocence long lost. Then the coin struck the table with a sharp ping! And the softness vanished.

“Amos… you were my father’s closest advisor, were you not?”

“Yes,” Amos answered, his tone steady but his gaze lingering too long. “Not only his advisor, but his friend—until his final breath.”

Silus’ jaw tightened. A friend of my father, never mine. Childhood ended the day the crown fell on me.

“Then tell me, Amos… what do you believe makes a good king?”

Silus walked toward the tall windows, crimson velvet curtains fluttering in the wind. His black eyes stared down at the bustling city. Fingers clenched as he turned away, the coin of doubt spinning in his palm.

“I don’t know, Amos. I’m only twenty-six. My youth surrounds me, and the world is unknown to me. I feel nothing but failure. My brother was heir, my father stood strong, my cousin was next in line… now there is only me.”

Amos’ brown eyes glimmered, his grey hair shining as he smiled faintly. His voice was calm, but his words pressed like a blade against Silus’ chest. “Your father once told me: Ne timeas quod nescis. (Do not fear what you do not know.) Fear sharpens, if you let it. Do not let dread consume you.”

He paused, leaning closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. Servants froze mid-step, straining to hear. “But remember, Silus — hesitation is poison. A king who falters loses not only battles, but thrones. The temples are restless. The advisor's hunger. If you stumble, they will not wait.”

Silus’ jaw tightened. Why does he speak of temples as if they are his to command? Why does he sound as though he waits for me to fall?

Amos’ fingers twitched, tapping against one another, his smile thin and predatory. He tilted his head, studying Silus like prey. “Yet… calamity is power. Harnessed, it could bend temples, regions, even empires. Do not dismiss it so quickly.”

Silus frowned, his gaze sharpening. “You speak as though you desire it.”

Amos bowed his head too quickly. “I speak only of caution. But the temple must be informed.”

Lies, Silus thought. You want the Pope’s ear. You want the prophecy for yourself. And in the silence that followed, the coin spun once more, catching the light — a child’s game turned into a king’s burden.

Bang! The heavy doors slammed open, echoing like judgment. The sound rattled through the chamber, making the servants flinch. Trays trembled in their hands, goblets clinked against silver, and parchment fluttered to the floor. One whispered to another, barely audible: “Did you see his eyes? He hides something.”

Silus sat in silence, his back hunched, the coin dancing across his fingers. Flip… flip… flip. He murmured, almost to himself, “I’m a good king… right, Amos?” His voice sharpened as the coin spun in the air, catching the light like a blade. “Come out, Rashid.”

From the shadows, a voice answered with a grin. “You’re as clever as the day I first met you in that tavern,” Rashid drawled, stepping forward, his dimple flashing. His words were playful, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.

Silus snapped his wrist—ping! The coin shot across the chamber, embedding itself deep into the wall. Smoke curled in thin wisps around the metal. Servants gasped softly, then quickly lowered their heads, pretending not to see.

“Good aim, Silus! Nearly struck my most prized jewels.” Rashid strolled forward without shame, slinging an arm around the king’s shoulders. “You mean your face?” Silus smirked. “Yes—but more importantly, my personality. Not all of us are blessed with such dazzling gifts, you know!” His laughter rang hollow, masking ambition.

Dong… dong… The grand clock tower outside tolled, its iron voice rolling through the city like thunder. The sound pressed against the chamber walls, heavy and inescapable, as if time itself were judging them. Each chime seemed to remind Silus of the prophecy’s refrain: When the skies weep with blood and flame…

Silus’ voice dropped, low and deliberate. “Have you found the one of calamity yet?”

“Yes.” Rashid’s tone was precise, but his eyes betrayed desire. “She is the thousandth hero—Diana Hart. Twenty-five years old. Powers unknown. She shattered the saint’s crystal, causing the saint to faint. Banished. Location unknown.”

The words hung in the air, thick as smoke. Rashid’s grin lingered, sly and dangerous. His eyes gleamed with unspoken hunger: If calamity can shatter saints, imagine what else it can break.

Silus’ gaze darkened. “And the temples?”

“There’s been an increase in suspicious dealings between the northern and eastern temples. The Great Pope Ishmal has reached out to the Shamil Saintess of the Kingdom of Vladimir.” Rashid’s words carried weight, but the subtext was clear: The temples are aligning. Power shifts. Thrones tremble.

“Good. Continue with your observations.” Silus coughed, waving his hand to clear the smoke. “You shouldn’t smoke that filth. It kills the mind.”

“What a buzzkill,” Rashid muttered, blowing smoke deliberately toward the servants, who flinched. “What did you say?” Silus asked sharply. “You’re such a blessing,” Rashid sighed, rolling his eyes as he turned to leave. His grin lingered, sly and dangerous. “I’ll take my leave now. And be careful—your uncle is returning.”

Before Silus could ask any questions, Rashid vanished into the shadows. Whsshh. The servants froze, their trays rattling in their hands, as if the very walls had whispered treachery.

Silus remained by the window, the coin still warm in his palm. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—young, uncertain, crowned by chance. Outside, the clock tower tolled again, its voice echoing across Tolkin. Dong… dong… dong… A sinking ship, he thought. And yet… the only ship left afloat.