The Frandorian Royal Court had always been built to make men feel small. The dome-shaped structure rose high above the capital’s central plaza, its stone ribs curving inward like the inside of a colossal crown. Every word spoken within its chamber carried, echoing faintly across the circular hall as if the building itself wished to listen. The court was older than most dynasties represented within it. Its marble floors had seen centuries of alliances, betrayals, and quiet negotiations that shaped the continent of Fractasia.

  Rows of throne-like seats lined the interior wall in a great semi-circle. Each was carved differently, each carried the banner of a great dynasty. Some banners hung proudly, freshly embroidered and vibrant. Others were older, faded from generations of use, yet no less respected. All of them faced a single raised platform at the far end of the chamber.

  The Royal Throne.

  Above it hung the royal banners of Frandore, heavy cloth cascading down like a waterfall of authority. No monarch sat there today, but the throne remained untouched. It was not uncommon for the royal family to call the patriarchs together without attending in person. Their absence rarely meant indifference. Often it meant the crown wanted to observe the reactions of its most powerful families before making its move.

  Today was one of those days.

  One by one, the patriarchs began to arrive.

  The heavy bronze doors opened with a groan that echoed throughout the chamber, announcing the first entrant. Lloyd Knight stepped inside with the slow confidence of a man who had long been accustomed to authority. His brown hair was combed neatly behind his head, and his maroon eyes scanned the room with open calculation. He wore layered robes in deep red and brown, matching the colors of his house banner that hung above his assigned seat.

  The emblem of the Knight Dynasty, a hammer striking downward against a checkered field, glinted faintly in the torchlight.

  Lloyd Knight represented power of a different kind than most of the other dynasties.

  His lands in the southern territories supplied slave labor across much of Fractasia. Farms, mines, construction guilds, and shipping houses all depended on the labor his dynasty distributed. The work was unpleasant, brutal, and lucrative.

  He stepped forward, resting one hand on the carved armrest of his throne-like chair before sitting down.

  “Looks like we’re early,” Lloyd said aloud.

  The next entrance came moments later.

  Gullivan Godfrey entered quietly, almost solemnly, as though stepping into a cathedral rather than a political court. His robes were white and tan, flowing and ceremonial, the same style worn by the priests of the western monotheist faith. A simple cross symbol rested on the center of his chest. Unlike the flamboyant banners of the other houses, the Godfrey banner was simple.

  A tan cross against white cloth.

  The symbol of the western church.

  The Godfrey Dynasty ruled the western lands almost entirely through faith. Their priests managed shrines, temples, and spiritual courts across Fractasia. Their sermons shaped the thoughts of millions.

  Gullivan approached Lloyd with calm steps.

  “Knight,” he greeted.

  Lloyd gave a short nod.

  “Godfrey.”

  Gullivan glanced up toward the empty Royal Throne.

  “I assume we are here for the same reason everyone else is.”

  Lloyd leaned back in his chair.

  “Hard not to be.”

  Gullivan folded his hands together.

  “Foklunn.”

  Lloyd’s lips curved slightly.

  “Word travels fast through churches.”

  Gullivan responded calmly.

  “Faith networks are efficient.”

  Before their conversation could continue, the doors opened again. A tall man stepped inside with a presence that shifted the atmosphere slightly.

  Margrave Kleinsworth walked with a rigid posture that resembled a military officer more than a noble lord. His skin was pale, almost unnaturally so under the torchlight. His jet-black hair fell straight to his shoulders, framing a face that many had privately compared to a vampire’s.

  His dynasty’s banner hung above his assigned seat. A spear and sword crossing over each other against a black and purple checkered field.

  The Kleinsworth Dynasty was known throughout Fractasia for one thing.

  Armies.

  Their lands in the southern territories were organized almost entirely around military infrastructure. Recruitment camps, training fields, weapon depots, and marching grounds stretched for miles. When the crown needed soldiers in large numbers, it was Kleinsworth who answered first.

  Margrave Kleinsworth walked past Lloyd and Gullivan without greeting them immediately. Instead he surveyed the room slowly, as if counting the seats.

  Finally he spoke.

  “Still missing a few.”

  Kleinsworth sat down, resting one gloved hand against the armrest.

  The bronze doors opened once more.

  Knox Kaeluse entered with a much lighter step than the previous patriarchs. He carried himself like a man who enjoyed the attention that followed his name. His tan skin contrasted sharply against the white and cyan robes of his house colors. Brown hair framed his face in loose waves.

  The banner of the Kaeluse Dynasty hung behind his throne.

  A greatsword against a cyan and white field.

  Unlike Kleinsworth’s mass armies, the Kaeluse Dynasty specialized in small numbers of elite warriors. Royal Knights, monster hunters, specialized mercenary units. Their training methods were rumored to be brutal and selective.

  Knox walked directly toward Lloyd.

  “Well now,” he said with a relaxed grin. “Looks like the usual suspects.”

  Lloyd raised an eyebrow.

  “You say that like you expected someone else.”

  Knox shrugged.

  “I expected Leo to show up.”

  Gullivan glanced over.

  A moment of silence followed.

  Even Kleinsworth’s attention shifted slightly at that.

  The Jakobster Dynasty was not simply another great house. It was the dominant power of the northern lands and the largest merchant network in the entire continent. Their river trade controlled commodities no other region could produce.

  Rare fish oils. Exotic grains. Pearl farming. Luxury fabrics grown in the northern wetlands.

  Their banner depicted a clam holding a pearl against a yellow X on a blue field.

  And their patriarch was nowhere to be seen.

  Knox scratched his chin.

  “He’ll probably show up in a bit.”

  Lloyd leaned forward slightly.

  “Probably.”

  Before the conversation could deepen, the doors opened again.

  Orson Phantoms entered without announcement.

  He was younger than most patriarchs present, though still old enough to command authority. His jet-black hair hung loosely around his face, and his red eyes gave him a gaze that many found unsettling. Unlike the others, his clothing was simple.

  Gray and red robes.

  His banner hung above his seat.

  An anvil against striped gray and red cloth.

  The Phantom Dynasty produced something every army and kingdom depended on.

  Weapons.

  Armor.

  Siege tools.

  Blacksmith guilds across Fractasia traced their lineage back to Phantom workshops.

  Orson walked to his seat without greeting anyone.

  He sat down.

  Silently.

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  Knox gave him a casual nod.

  “Good to see you, Orson.”

  Orson said nothing.

  His red eyes simply studied the chamber.

  Lloyd chuckled softly.

  “He always was the quiet type.”

  Knox leaned back in his chair.

  “So. We’re all here except Leo.”

  Kleinsworth crossed his arms.

  “Which is interesting.”

  Gullivan spoke calmly.

  “Leo’s absence may not be coincidence.”

  Lloyd tilted his head.

  “Care to elaborate.”

  Gullivan gestured gently.

  “The attack occurred in the north.”

  Knox blinked.

  “Foklunn is Jakobster territory.”

  Gullivan nodded.

  “Yes.”

  A pause settled across the chamber.

  Lloyd’s maroon eyes narrowed slightly.

  “So you think Leonor is dealing with the aftermath.”

  Kleinsworth shook his head.

  “If that were the case he would send a representative.”

  Knox tapped the armrest of his chair.

  “Or maybe he’s embarrassed.”

  Lloyd smirked. “Embarrassed.”

  Knox shrugged. “His lands get burned down and he hides.”

  Gullivan looked toward the Royal Throne.

  “Or perhaps he already knows something we do not.”

  Orson finally spoke.

  His voice was quiet.

  “They all know something.”

  The room turned slightly toward him.

  It was rare for Orson Phantoms to speak at all.

  Knox leaned forward.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  Orson’s red eyes scanned the chamber slowly.

  “The crown called us here.”

  He paused.

  “They must already know the answer.”

  Silence settled again.

  The patriarchs all looked toward the empty Royal Throne.

  Because everyone in that chamber understood the same thing.

  This meeting was not about discovering what happened at Foklunn.

  The crown already knew.

  The great chamber of the Frandorian Royal Court had begun to grow restless.

  The patriarchs of the great dynasties sat within their carved seats arranged in a circle beneath the towering dome, each one bearing the banner of their house above their heads. The flicker of torches cast long shadows across the polished marble floor, and every small movement echoed within the chamber like a whisper carried through a cathedral.

  They had been waiting.

  Conversations had started and stopped in fragments. Lloyd Knight had exchanged quiet remarks with Knox Kaeluse. Margrave Kleinsworth had sat stiffly in silence, occasionally glancing toward the empty Royal Throne. Gullivan Godfrey sat with his hands folded calmly, as if he had been expecting this waiting period all along.

  Orson Phantoms had not spoken again.

  Then the trumpets sounded.

  The noise shattered the quiet of the court.

  Long, sharp notes echoed through the chamber as the bronze doors behind the Royal Throne opened slowly. Royal guards stepped forward first, their armor polished to a mirror sheen, their halberds raised in ceremonial formation.

  Behind them walked the King of Frandore.

  Victorious I.

  Above the throne hung the royal banners of the kingdom. Deep royal blue cloth draped from the stone archways, each bearing the white silhouette of a crowned stag, the ancient symbol of the Frandorian crown.

  For a moment, the sight alone carried weight.

  Every patriarch in the room instinctively straightened.

  Because no matter their personal wealth or military strength, every dynasty present was still bound beneath that crown.

  The King approached slowly.

  Too slowly.

  At first, the tension within the room held. Knox Kaeluse folded his arms and leaned slightly forward, watching with mild curiosity. Lloyd Knight sat upright in his chair, his maroon eyes observing the monarch carefully.

  But as the King drew closer, the atmosphere shifted.

  Victorious I was old.

  Not merely aged, but withered.

  His once-grand royal robes hung loosely from a frame that had grown thin with time. His white hair had receded unevenly, leaving fragile strands clinging to the sides of his head. His beard trembled slightly as he walked.

  More troubling was the way he moved.

  His steps were uneven.

  Not the slow, deliberate stride of a careful ruler, but the uncertain shuffling of a man whose body had begun to betray him.

  A royal attendant quietly guided him up the steps to the throne.

  The King paused halfway, blinking slowly as though trying to remember where he was.

  The tension in the room shifted again.

  Not fear.

  Not respect.

  Something more uncomfortable.

  Familiar.

  Knox Kaeluse leaned slightly toward Lloyd Knight and muttered under his breath.

  “Still alive, I see.”

  Lloyd replied without looking at him.

  “Barely.”

  The King finally reached the throne and lowered himself into the seat with visible effort. His hands gripped the armrests as though anchoring himself in place.

  For a few long seconds he said nothing.

  Then he looked around the chamber.

  Slowly.

  His eyes wandered from banner to banner, face to face, as though trying to remember who each person was.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was thinner than most had expected.

  “Yes… yes…”

  He nodded vaguely.

  “The meeting.”

  The royal steward standing beside the throne stepped forward slightly and cleared his throat.

  “Your Majesty,” the steward said carefully, “the patriarchs have gathered to discuss the matter of the northern incident.”

  The King blinked.

  “The north.”

  Another pause.

  Then his eyes brightened faintly.

  “Ah yes. The war.”

  The room stirred slightly.

  Even Kleinsworth leaned forward now.

  The King lifted a shaking hand and gestured vaguely to the chamber.

  “There is… someone. Yes. A declaration.”

  He squinted as though searching for a word.

  “Luck.”

  The name carried across the room.

  Several patriarchs exchanged glances.

  Knox spoke first.

  “Your Majesty, with respect, we still do not know if this so-called declaration is even legitimate.”

  Lloyd nodded slowly.

  “All we have are reports from the north.”

  Gullivan Godfrey raised a calm hand.

  “The reports are consistent.”

  Knox shrugged.

  “Reports can be exaggerated.”

  Margrave Kleinsworth finally spoke.

  “An entire settlement burned.”

  His voice was flat.

  “That is not exaggeration.”

  Knox turned toward him.

  “Villages burn every month.”

  “Not like this.”

  The tension began to rise.

  The King blinked slowly again, clearly struggling to follow the flow of the discussion.

  Gullivan addressed the chamber calmly.

  “The issue is not the village.”

  He folded his hands together.

  “The issue is the nature of the attack.”

  Lloyd raised an eyebrow.

  “You believe the undead story.”

  Gullivan met his gaze evenly.

  “I believe the witnesses.”

  Knox chuckled softly.

  “Witnesses see strange things when their homes are burning.”

  Kleinsworth’s pale eyes remained fixed on the floor.

  “The scale of the destruction was real.”

  Knox spread his hands casually.

  “So we’re declaring continental war because one northern settlement burned and some villagers saw ghosts.”

  Gullivan spoke quietly.

  “They did not see ghosts.”

  Orson Phantoms spoke suddenly.

  “They saw weapons.”

  The room turned toward him again.

  Orson’s red eyes reflected the torchlight faintly.

  “Someone attacked.”

  He paused.

  “Effectively.”

  That single word hung in the air.

  Lloyd leaned back slightly.

  “Effective attacks happen.”

  Knox nodded.

  “Bandits grow bold.”

  Kleinsworth shook his head slowly.

  “Bandits do not declare war on kingdoms.”

  That remark silenced the room for a moment.

  Then Knox spoke again.

  “And where exactly did this declaration come from.”

  Gullivan answered.

  “A Jakobster courier.”

  That name shifted the atmosphere again.

  Lloyd frowned.

  “The Jakobsters.”

  Knox scratched his chin.

  “That reminds me.”

  He looked around the chamber.

  “Where exactly is Leonor?”

  Silence fell.

  The steward near the throne shifted slightly before speaking.

  “Patriarch Leonor Jakobster will not be attending today’s assembly.”

  Lloyd narrowed his eyes.

  “And why is that.”

  The steward hesitated.

  Then spoke clearly.

  “Leonor Jakobster passed away yesterday morning.”

  The words rippled across the chamber like a stone dropped into water.

  Knox sat upright.

  “Passed away?”

  The steward nodded.

  “Heart failure.”

  For several seconds nobody spoke.

  Then Lloyd exhaled slowly.

  “That’s convenient.”

  Kleinsworth’s eyes narrowed.

  “Convenient.”

  Knox leaned back again.

  “So the man whose lands were attacked suddenly dies the day before this meeting.”

  Gullivan’s voice remained calm.

  “Coincidence exists.”

  Knox laughed quietly.

  “Sure it does.”

  Orson Phantoms remained silent again.

  But his red eyes were watching everything.

  The King suddenly raised his hand again.

  The movement was slow, uncertain, but enough to silence the room.

  He looked out at the assembled patriarchs with an expression that seemed strangely distant.

  “You argue.”

  His voice trembled slightly.

  “You always argue.”

  No one responded.

  The King continued.

  “But there is war.”

  He nodded slowly as though convincing himself.

  “Yes… war.”

  The steward leaned slightly closer to him.

  “Your Majesty wishes to make a proclamation.”

  The King blinked again.

  “Yes.”

  He straightened slightly in the throne, gathering what little authority still remained in his voice.

  “Unity.”

  The word echoed faintly in the dome.

  The patriarchs listened carefully now.

  The King lifted his hand again.

  “I declare… the Proclamation for Unity.”