Chapter 29 The Council III

  Kardec's lips parted, a dry breath escaping. He had not planned for this. This was not how such things were done. This was supposed to be done in private—behind closed doors, in controlled chambers, with carefully chosen words and safe illusions of respect.

  He swallowed and drew the scroll free. The Lord of Avalon returned to his seat.

  A faint rustle echoed like thunder in the still room.

  He broke the seal.

  The parchment unrolled with a dry whisper, and all leaned forward as he began to read.

  His voice, though trembling, tried to find an official cadence.

  “Let it be known to all gathered, by the Office of the Ministerial Circle, under seal of the Eighth Chair and with divine consultation by the Veiled Seers of the Sanctum,

  that in accordance with the Prophecy of Her Ladyship, which speaks of a coming Shadow and in light of certain signs, confirmed by augury and witnessed in the boy known as the Second Son of House Avalon—

  The Circle of Ministers did resolve to take immediate protective measures on behalf of the realm.”

  A murmur swept the room. Kardec raised his voice to speak over it.

  “In the interests of order, and to shield the noble House of Avalon from deeper dishonor, this action was undertaken in secret, without public decree or trial,

  so as to preserve dignity and maintain stability in this fragile hour.

  Therefore, the soul of the boy—whose name is withheld for discretion-was bound and sealed two weeks past, under the rites of protective containment for three years.

  This was done while the child lay in recovery, stricken by the Punishment Illness, known in the elder tongue as ‘Eternal Punishment.’”

  Now, the murmuring ceased. No one breathed.

  “Let Lord Eldric, Lord of Avalon and bearer of the Tower Crest, acknowledge this act not as an insult, but as a loyal necessity.

  Let him be reminded that to serve the crown is to bear sacrifice, and that duty may demand the bitter before the just.

  Let no further inquiries obstruct the will of the Council.”

  The parchment curled slightly in Kardec's shaking hand as he lowered it.

  A moment passed.

  Then another.

  Shock moved like a wave.

  The nobles recoiled. A baron’s goblet clattered to the stone. Lady Seryn covered her mouth. One of the older priests sat heavily, eyes wide and unfocused.

  Only one among them remained still—an elder priest in white and deep blue, eyes narrow beneath his hood. He looked neither shocked nor pleased—merely watchful. Calculating.

  From the dais, a wooden chair screeched backward.

  Aldric, son of Eldric, rose to his feet, the sudden motion cracking the silence.

  His hand went to the hilt of his blade.

  "You soulbound my brother?"

  His voice was thunder, raw and cracked by disbelief.

  Guards tensed.

  A few servants fled.

  A low chorus of gasps broke out as the full weight of the revelation crushed the hall.

  “Aldric,” came his father’s voice.

  Measured. Commanding.

  “Stand. Back.”

  But there was fire behind Eldric’s eyes. A quiet rage—not frantic, but focused. Terrible in its restraint.

  Across the floor, Knight-Errant Beric stepped forward, planting one boot between Kardec and the rest of the room. His hand rested on his own blade. The Knight’s glare dared anyone to move.

  The moment held.

  Electric. Unstable.

  One false step would unravel centuries of order.

  The nobles stood—some slowly, some not at all. Many watched their lord. Others watched their blades. One reached for a goblet and realized his hand was shaking.

  Lord Eldric had not risen.

  Not yet.

  But he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

  Like a predator ready to spring.

  And still, his voice remained calm.

  “Minister Kardec,” he said, eyes unblinking. “You have spoken your consular ruling. You have made your claim.”

  Another beat.

  Then he added, voice low:

  “And now you will listen.”

  Lord Eldric rose.

  The great hall seemed to grow smaller around him, the banners of House Avalon—black and deep blue—swaying in the still air, as if stirred by the weight of his will.

  He stepped forward once, his voice deep and resonant—not shouted, but spoken with the conviction of ancient law.

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  “I speak now,” he said, “as the head of House Avalon. As Lord of the Valley. As a noble peer of the realm.”

  The hall quieted into a hush so total that one could hear the creak of timber overhead.

  “I charge you and your Council,” he said, eyes locked on Minister Kardec, “with the unlawful assault upon a noble house of the realm. With the cowardly soulbinding of a sick boy, stricken in bed—without trial, without accusation, without defense—based on a prophecy without proof, and no charge laid before his kin.”

  Gasps rippled through the hall.

  “I charge you with greed. With contempt. With treason.”

  The words hit like hammer blows.

  “And let it be known—this crime has already been forwarded to the king. The record has been sent, and the seals have been broken. His Majesty will render judgment upon the Council that signed this.”

  Then his voice dropped, and the room seemed to freeze around it.

  “But you, Minister Kardec,”

  Eldric took one more step forward. “You are in my lands. And I am the executioner of the king’s will here. You will be judged—by me.”

  A storm of silence swept the hall.

  Knight-Errant Beric, who had not flinched all evening, straightened. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade. For the first time, his confidence faltered—not by fear, but calculation. The balance was shifting.

  Minister Kardec stumbled backward a half step, as if struck.

  “You—” he stammered, “You have no right! I—I am a minister of the realm! We rule! We maintain order! We—”

  And then he stopped.

  His own words echoed in his ears, louder than any outcry.

  “We rule...”

  His breath hitched. His face blanched.

  He had just spoken treason.

  There it was—out loud, before nobles, priests, merchants, and the agents of the king.

  And Lord Eldric did not move. He didn’t need to.

  Kardec's eyes darted, desperation blooming like rot. His hands trembled. He turned—not to the dais, but to the galleries—to the priests seated in their colored robes of red, black, and ash-white.

  “No, no—this was not our act alone,” he cried out. “The Council did not act without cause! The priests—they gave the word! They named the child! It was the Priests of the Veil of Ashen! They confirmed the boy!”

  The crowd turned as one toward the priestly delegation.

  The priests stiffened. Some looked to one another in quiet confusion. Others leaned forward, gauging reactions.

  But in the back, seated beneath a hood of smoky gray, one of the senior priests only raised his head slightly.

  Lord Eldric turned his gaze upon the senior priest seated at the center of the gallery—his face half-shrouded by the folds of his smoky-gray hood, the light from the high sconces casting uneven shadows across his features.

  His voice rang out—not in rage, but in cold, righteous demand.

  “What say you, priest?” Eldric asked. “Did you condemn my son?”

  A murmur passed through the crowd again as all eyes locked on the priest.

  “Was it your order that received a revelation? Did one among you declare that the prophecy pointed to my son?” His tone grew heavier, like stone dragged across iron. “And did you tell the Council—so they would take it upon themselves to strike at my house, at a child in his sickbed?”

  The priest’s hands gripped the edge of the bench in front of him. Slowly, as if resisting the weight of the hall’s judgment, he stood. His shoulders were stiff, and his voice, when it came, wavered beneath its attempt at composure.

  “My Lord of Avalon,” the priest began, eyes not daring to meet Eldric’s fully, “I do not know the prophecy. The High Interpreters hold that knowledge, and they reside beyond these lands.”

  A flicker of confusion moved through the nobles. Some priests in the gallery exchanged glances.

  “I do not know what those of my order may have said or believed,” the priest continued, “nor what signs they saw. I was not consulted. I did not speak to the Council. I did not offer witness, nor would I conspire against the realm, the king, or the lawful peers who uphold this land.”

  His voice grew steadier with each word—perhaps truth, perhaps survival.

  “I had nothing to do with this.”

  The hall held its breath.

  Lord Eldric’s eyes lingered on the priest for a heartbeat longer—reading him, measuring him—then turned sharply, gaze now locked on Minister Kardec.

  And for the first time, Kardec looked truly alone.

  The priest had barely resumed his seat when Aldric rose again, his face taut with fury, his voice trembling with rage and disgust.

  “You soulbound him,” he said, stepping down from the dais, each footfall like a hammer. “My brother. A sick boy, lying helpless in bed. You did this—you—all for a prophecy you barely understood. No trial. No proof. Just arrogance and fear.”

  He pointed a shaking hand at Minister Kardec, who visibly recoiled, his mouth moving but no words coming.

  “You tried to kill him by another name. And for what? Power? Favor? Your own twisted sense of what’s best for the realm?”

  A low murmur spread through the crowd like wildfire, the nobles and merchants backing slightly as Aldric pressed forward. The ministers’ faces had gone pale; even the priests seemed unsure of where to look.

  Before Aldric could take another step, a figure shifted. Knight-Errant Beric stepped in front of Kardec with the practiced grace of a seasoned duelist, his hand brushing his sword.

  “Careful, boy,” he said in a low growl. “You don’t have the right to speak to a minister like that.”

  Aldric stopped, his eyes burning.

  “The right?” he repeated, louder now, for all the hall to hear. “The right? I am a peer of the realm. You stand on Avalon soil. You stand in our hall. And that man—” he stabbed his finger toward Kardec—“has attacked our blood. I have every right.”

  Beric’s eyes narrowed. The muscles in his jaw flexed.

  “I challenge that,” he said.

  A silence fell. Heavy. Tense. Anticipating Aldric’s reply.

  But it wasn’t Aldric who spoke.

  A deeper voice cut through the air—measured, powerful, and absolute.

  “I accept that challenge.”

  The room froze.

  Every head turned.

  It was not the son.

  It was Lord Eldric, Lord of Avalon, who had answered.

  He stepped forward from the dais with the authority of his station, his bearing utterly unshaken. His eyes locked onto Knight-Errant Beric with the quiet certainty of a man who had stared down wars and rebellions—and never once blinked.

  Gasps rose around the hall. Some nobles stepped back as if expecting the very stones of the manor to tremble. Others looked to one another, confused, uncertain of what came next. One of the merchants muttered, “He invoked the old rite himself.”

  Even the ministers paled. The priests were still.

  Beric’s jaw tensed, caught between duty and sudden uncertainty.

  And Lord Eldric continued, his voice echoing like judgment itself:

  “You challenged my son. You challenged this house. The insult lies not only with him, but with me. And as Lord of Avalon, as Warden of the Valley, and as a peer of the realm—I will answer it.”

  Then he stepped down.

  The hall was silent.