The grand hall of Caldrith Keep shimmered with dusklight pouring through stained glass windows, each panel depicting legends now muddied by time. The Council of Six Kingdoms had not convened here in over a decade—not since the war against the Bone Warlord of Harrowfen. But now, there was a new unease in the air. Not from war—at least not yet—but from uncertainty.
The grand hall of Caldrith Keep shimmered with dusklight pouring through stained glass windows, each panel depicting legends now muddied by time. The Council of Six Kingdoms had not convened here in over a decade—not since the War of Bone and Mire, when the kingdoms stood united to drive back the deathless armies of the Bone Warlord of Harrowfen, a necromancer-king whose sorcery twisted the very soil into weapons and raised the dead as his vanguard.
It had been a war unlike any before it—no clear borders, no terms of surrender. The Bone Warlord had not sought land or wealth, but dominion over life itself. His fortress of Vyrghoul, carved into the marshlands of the black fen, had pulsed with dark magic. His armies had risen each dusk from the graveyards of forgotten wars, clad in rusted armor and wrapped in spectral light. They did not tire. They did not speak. They came by night, by fog, by song carried on the winds, and with each fallen soldier, their legions grew.
Queen Thalia of Solenvyre had lost her father in that war. He had fallen not in battle, but in sacrifice—channeling the last rites of the old Elyari sanctum to seal the southern fen gate with burning light, breaking the necromantic leyline that fed the Warlord's resurrection cycle. Many still believed the victory had been luck, or divine mercy, or a combination of both. The truth, as only a handful knew, was stranger: the final blow had come not from steel or sorcery, but from a vaelstone resonance, awakened deep within the ruined city of Teleran—a place long believed cursed and uninhabited.
Since then, the kingdoms had honored the uneasy peace forged in the smoke of that war. The Council had convened then—young monarchs swearing oaths on ash-covered altars. Promises had been made that if ever darkness rose again, they would not stand divided.
But now, as a cold hush filled Caldrith Keep, many in the chamber quietly wondered whether that oath still held weight. Especially when news from the Ashlands suggested the ancient enemy—the very source of necromantic power—may not have been fully extinguished after all.
Queen Thalia of Solenvyre entered the chamber in silence, her white robes trailing like water behind her. Her eyes were cool as river-ice, and her circlet bore the gem of Elyari ancestry—ironic, some thought, given her increasingly progressive stance. She took her seat without a word, flanked by her closest guard, Ser Kael, and her silver-haired scribe, Liora.
Moments later, High Emissary Ramses of the Lower Sunlands arrived, his garments tailored in desert gold and turquoise, stained by travel and quick decisions. Though not a king, Ramses spoke with the full weight of his sovereign, Amir, whose growing influence was causing quiet murmurs among the coastal kingdoms.
Then came Lady Astrid of Cindergarde, young, resolute, her crimson mantle emblazoned with her family's phoenix sigil. She greeted no one, only nodded—first to Thalia, then to Ramses. Her silence, like her kingdom's rising strength, was intentional.
The last to arrive was Chancellor Julia of House Merinth, whose realm held no great army nor wealth, but who had built her power through secrets. Her smile was the kind that didn't reach the eyes. She sat, wine already in hand, and let the silence brew.
No representative had come from Orlan.
And Alexios? No word. No messenger. Only rumors.
Thalia finally stood. "You've heard the reports. I will not mince words—we are standing on the brink of something ancient. Something buried. Amir and Alexios have found… something beneath the Ashlands. Their last dispatch spoke of Elyari symbols."
Julia raised an eyebrow. "How curious. The Elyari were said to be extinct. Like dragons. And just as dangerous."
Astrid interjected, voice clipped. "My seers speak of shadows beneath the frost. Dead things stirring."
Ramses frowned. "Your seers always speak of dead things, Lady Astrid."
Thalia leaned forward. "Enough. The point is not superstition. The point is that if Alexios and Amir are telling the truth—if the prophecies are even partially real—then we are unprepared."
Julia sipped her wine. "Or they've staged the greatest political performance in our lifetimes."
Ramses spoke next. "Performance or not, their people believe them. The pact they made is public now. Traders in Lirhaven are already calling it the 'Dawn Accord.' I've seen street banners. Coins minted with both kings' visages."
Thalia's jaw tightened. "That changes the balance. Two powers united, even loosely, will shift trade and allegiance."
Astrid tapped her fingers on the table. "Not if we form our own."
Julia's eyes narrowed. "A counter-alliance?"
Astrid nodded. "Yes. One built not on prophecy, but pragmatism."
"You mean power," Thalia said, tone unreadable.
Astrid didn't flinch. "Call it what you will. Orlan is stirring again. Raiders have crossed my western borders. There is movement in the Hollow Marshes. And I believe Alexios, even if you don't. We need strength. And fast."
Ramses looked troubled. "Amir would never support aggression unless provoked. He's no warmonger."
"No," said Julia, "but Alexios might be. He's young. Emotional. And if he believes he's a chosen 'Crown,' prophecy or not, it may go to his head."
Thalia took a breath, then stood again. "We cannot afford to fracture. Not now. Astrid, I understand your urgency. But counter-alliances breed mistrust. I propose something else—a neutral summit, on Elyari soil. A Congress of the Remaining Crowns."
"And who would host it?" Ramses asked.
Thalia paused. "Solenvyre will. My court is fortified, but peaceful. And no army may travel by land into our territory without my sanction. It will be safe."
Astrid raised an eyebrow. "And if someone arrives with more than words?"
"They will be turned away," said Thalia. "I swear it on my kingdom's seal."
Julia toyed with her goblet. "You ask for peace when the ground is shaking beneath our feet. Still, I would rather watch the serpent than kill it blind. I will come."
The others nodded, one by one.
Far to the west, deep in Orlan's frostbitten capital, the aged Duke Ragnald stood beside a coffin of black stone. His gloved fingers brushed runes older than the Frost War.
"I warned them," he muttered. "I warned them all."
Behind him, a hunched priest intoned hymns from the Forgotten Tongue. From the shadows, figures emerged—cloaked and faceless. Loyal to no kingdom. Sworn only to the old blood.
"They think a summit will save them," Ragnald said. "Let them gather. Let them hope."
He turned, eyes burning with pale light.
"By then, it will be too late."
Back in Solenvyre, as Thalia descended from the council chamber into her private sanctum, Liora followed with hushed urgency.
"My Queen… reports from the western outposts. Border tension is escalating. Two caravans have vanished near the Vale of Reeds."
Thalia sighed. "Send scouts. Quietly. We cannot let panic preempt diplomacy."
"But what if it's Orlan again?"
Thalia stared out the window. Beyond the hills, clouds gathered like bruises in the sky.
"Then we prepare for war," she said softly, "even while we speak of peace."
And beneath the Ashlands, as night fell on the abandoned citadel of Khor Avalen, Alexios and Amir stood alone, watching the stars.
"Do you think they'll believe us?" Amir asked.
"No," said Alexios. "But they'll have no choice."
A cold wind howled through the bones of the ruined city.
"The age of crowns is ending," Alexios whispered. "Something else is coming."