The floating lanterns moved in silence, casting shifting gold and sapphire light across the obsidian walls of the Hall of Wards. Sigils glowed faintly beneath their slow orbit, marking the seats of the sixteen council members, each etched in a different style of ancient arcana—one for each tradition, for each seat of power. Some seats gleamed with the purity of Light magic, others shimmered like heat over a forge, and still others pulsed faintly with elemental resonance. It was a room built to contain warring philosophies. A room meant to endure conflict. And tonight, it strained beneath the weight of too many voices.

  Draumbean stood at the far end of the chamber, black-robed, unadorned, but unmistakably central. He had not claimed the Archmage’s sigil. He had not donned the silver mantle passed down through the generations. But every eye watched him as if he already wore it. His staff rested at his side, the metal band near the head thrumming softly, picking up the vibrations of tension as clearly as it ever had wind or wave.

  The seats filled one by one. Nylla the Green was already present, her twisted vine-circlet wrapped loosely around her copper hair, her fingers green with crushed leaves. Quenara Flameheart entered next, pale, elegant, her robes stitched with star-thread, silent as the grave. Balthazar followed, stooped and hollow-eyed, bearing his usual expression of mild contempt. Helena Stormbringer arrived in subtle mail-glamour, her hair tied back with a leather cord, her face carved from calm stone.

  Then came Alistair, muttering to himself, one milky eye drifting behind a clouded pupil, his lantern familiar snaking beside him. Tiberius the Large waddled in behind, breathing heavily, already wiping his forehead. Two younger councilors—Marryn of the White Forge and Dellivar the Sigilwright—entered together, their postures stiff, uncertain of which faction they were about to align themselves with. Bellarion of the Eastern Vale, long robed and frail, slid into his seat and immediately began scrawling notes on an enchanted scroll, his quill writing itself. Lureya the Bone Dancer wore skeletal jewelry and carried a bundle of bones in one hand; she greeted no one. Ormikas, the obsidian-robed conjurer of the western sands, said a silent prayer and took his place without a glance to either side.

  And then, just before the hourglass turned, Xavert entered—late, deliberate, glorious.

  His robes were stitched with flame runes and set with brass buckles that caught the floating lanternlight with every stride. He walked like a man ascending a throne, not approaching equals. Behind him came his loyalists: Volian of the Red Cascade and Miraste the Flamebride, their allegiance plain from the sigils on their robes—twisted stylings of Xavert’s own mark, distorted just enough to claim independence.

  Sixteen in all.

  Each had a vote. Each had their own ambition. And tonight, they were meant to choose the next Archmage of the Empire.

  Draumbean’s voice, quiet though it was, cut through the rustling robes and whispered enchantments like the first breath before a storm.

  “The Council is gathered. The hour is late. But not too late to act wisely.”

  Volian laughed quietly. “If not now, then when? We’ve waited long enough.”

  “We buried Archmage Spendal this very day,” Nylla said, not unkindly. “His bones are still warm. His name still lingers in our wards. Shall we cast him aside so soon?”

  Xavert swept toward the center of the circle, standing with practiced ease at the open floor between the councilors. “You mistake momentum for disrespect,” he said. “The Tower must not appear uncertain. The Empire cannot suffer delay. Our enemies gather in shadows—let us not give them cause to believe we have none left in the light.”

  “Let us not pretend,” Draumbean said, his voice sharper now, “that you speak out of duty and not ambition.”

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  “And you do not?” Xavert said, lifting an eyebrow. “Let us be honest here, Draumbean. Stewart favored you. You were his protégé. You brought his body to rest. And yet you wear no mantle, call no vote, claim no burden. If not me, then is it you who rules the Tower by silence?”

  “I rule nothing,” Draumbean answered. “And that is precisely the point. No one should—not yet. Not while the skies darken. Not while the scrolls speak. Not while Malekith stirs.”

  The name sent a ripple through the room.

  Bellarion looked up from his scroll. Dellivar muttered something and crossed his fingers. Tiberius whimpered quietly.

  Even Miraste, normally smirking, frowned.

  “You speak that name too easily,” Marryn said, uneasy. “You stir winds best left quiet.”

  “Better stirred than denied,” Helena replied from her seat. “Malekith’s return is not theory. We’ve seen the signs.”

  “There have always been signs,” Volian said. “The moons shift. Storms rage. Scrolls whisper. These are the games of fate, not proof.”

  “And what of the vault beneath Grimmhaven?” Draumbean said, stepping forward. “Do you deny that we found a scroll? A genuine fragment—bound in goldleaf, sealed in five tongues, radiating magic we haven’t catalogued since the last age of the Crown?”

  “Have you read it?” Lureya asked.

  “We’ve begun to,” Quenara replied. “It speaks in partial cipher—one that aligns with three known sources on the Heaven’s Crown.”

  Lureya tilted her head. “Then you don’t know what it says.”

  “We know enough,” Nylla said. “We know it mentions the six fragments. We know it warns of rising dead. Of a sleeping lich. We know it was hidden for a reason.”

  “And that’s enough to halt the succession?” Xavert demanded. “Enough to leave this council rudderless? We are mages—not scribes. Let the lore masters play with scrolls. We must govern.”

  “You mistake the role,” Draumbean said. “The Archmage is not a governor. He is the keeper of equilibrium. And right now, the realm is anything but.”

  “Then we need a keeper more than ever,” Miraste said.

  “Then we need a council that acts,” said Volian.

  “And what of the south?” Ormikas asked suddenly, his voice deep and quiet. “Have we forgotten that orcs have broken the line near Silverfield? That Brechtzund burns? That refugees arrive at the gates daily. You speak of shadows—but there are flames on the ground.”

  “And the south,” Bellarion added. “Where is Duke Bournere?”

  That name struck like flint on stone.

  None answered immediately.

  Draumbean’s eyes narrowed. “That is part of the pattern. He would never abandon his post. Something is not right.”

  “Or bought him,” Volian muttered.

  “Silence,” Helena said.

  “I’ll not be silenced in council,” Volian growled.

  “You’ll speak truth or speak nothing,” she replied.

  “He speaks the truth you’re afraid of,” Xavert said. “This Tower has always hovered between purpose and delusion. And tonight, we tip toward the latter. Prophecies. Vanishing dukes. Dead kings. Let us deal with what is real. Let us elect a leader.”

  “You mean yourself,” Balthazar rasped. “Don’t pretend to crown the Tower for the Empire’s sake. You want the ring. The staff. The title. You always have.”

  Xavert turned slowly. “If I am the best choice, should I not take it?”

  “You are not the best choice,” Nylla said.

  “You’re not even close,” muttered Tiberius.

  “You all fear fire,” Xavert said, laughing bitterly. “Yet you would all freeze without it.”

  “Enough,” Draumbean said again. “I will not let this chamber turn into a pit of flame and accusation.”

  “Then call the vote,” Xavert snapped. “Let us put an end to it.”

  “You want a vote now?” Ormikas said, raising his hand slowly. “Then I say no.”

  “I say no,” Nylla said.

  “Yes,” Helena added.

  “No,” said Quenara.

  “No,” said Balthazar, leaning back.

  “Yes,” said Lureya.

  “Wait,” muttered Bellarion. “I… abstain. I need more.”

  “I abstain,” said Dellivar.

  Tiberius snorted. “I’d rather we waited.”

  Marryn hesitated. “I… don’t know. It’s too soon.”

  “Then it is not unanimous,” said Draumbean. “And by Stewart’s own decree, a vote without consensus is not binding. We wait.”

  Xavert’s face twisted in rage. “Cowards. All of you. You’d rather bury your heads in graves and scrolls. The Empire will fall before you finish translating your precious pages.”

  “Then let it fall with dignity,” Balthazar said.

  Xavert’s magic flared, a rush of heat pulsing from his palms. Sparks flickered. Several rose from their seats. Lureya’s bones clattered. Dellivar summoned a shield. Nylla’s vines stirred.

  Helena stood.

  “Enough.”

  She crossed the floor in three strides and stood before him. “You’ve already lost.”

  “You think this is over?” Xavert hissed.

  “It was over when you begged for a crown and they gave you silence.”

  He stared at her, wild with fury.

  Then he turned on Draumbean.

  “This will not hold. You’ve no right.”

  Draumbean did not blink. “Then take me to task. Or leave.”

  Xavert glared at them all.

  Then he turned and stormed from the chamber.

  Volian and Miraste followed.

  The lanterns flickered.

  Silence returned.

  Then Nylla sat slowly and murmured, “He will return.”

  “We’ll be ready,” said Quenara.

  And above them, the stars spun slowly over Struttsburg.

  But below—things began to move.