"Listen—and listen well," Galen's voice sliced through the tension like a blade. "I'm not repeating myself."
The flicker of sunlight mirrored in his crimson eyes as he looked around the courtroom. His voice, though detached, carried the weight of certainty.
"Amthar is in crisis. Sylvathar has made landfall."
Gasps broke out, hushed whispers following like a wind passing through dry grass.
"He's planning something," Galen continued. "Something massive. Big enough to tear through all three kingdoms—one after the other. He's not sending warnings. He's not asking questions. He's coming."
"I came here for two reasons: First, to let you know the threat is real. Second—" Galen paused, eyes shifting across each stunned face—"to tell you that if Solara wants to survive, you'll accept the alliance Queen Lucy will propose in the meeting two days from now."
Murmurs broke again—too loud this time.
One man rose from his seat like a gust of haughty wind.
Stern mustache. Trimmed beard. Uniform tailored like a sculpture. A man who smelled of laws, rules, and hot air.
"You expect us to believe this?" Edgar scoffed. "Did the Tempest Queen send you here, Galen? Did she tell you to storm in and spread this ridiculous fear like a plague? Perhaps you're just her mouthpiece now."
Before Galen could even react, Magnus raised his hand like he was about to bless the courtroom with divine sarcasm.
"If any of you actually want to know what kind of nightmare Sylvathar is brewing... maybe try accepting the alliance." Magnus added with a grin. "It's wild. Ten out of ten. Would not recommend fighting it alone."
Tharion tilted his head, eyes now on Magnus.
Magnus clutched his chest dramatically. "Ow. That hurt. Right here." He faked a sob. "I'm Magnus. Gally's only bestie across all realms. Resident wind guy. I know I don't look it, but I'm very important."
Galen didn't even blink. He just spoke over Magnus like he was background noise.
"Believe me or don't. I don't care," he said. "But Amthar's situation isn't a prophecy—it's a storm already on the horizon."
He stepped forward, locking eyes with Tharion now—his voice lowering, but every word landing like thunder.
"You've always cared more about Solara than your own family. That much, I know. So I'm not asking you to believe your son."
He leaned in just a bit.
"I'm asking you to act like the king who claims to protect his kingdom."
Silence. No one dared breathe.
Galen turned, trench coat flaring slightly behind him as he strode for the doors.
Magnus winked and threw the most unserious two-finger salute anyone could've imagined. "Bye-bye, Council. Try not to start a war before lunch."
The doors creaked open.
Then they shut behind them.
And the silence left in their wake was louder than the explosion that started it.
Tharion Magna sat unmoving, hands clasped beneath his chin, his crimson eyes barely held in check. Around him, the murmurs started again—voices rising like a tide of doubt, concern, and prideful resistance.
Seralyne, seated beside him, didn't speak. Her silver eyes were still on the doors, haunted and glistening with the tears she'd swallowed back. The way Galen had stopped her—it wasn't cruelty. It was urgency. She saw that now.
Lord Edgar slammed a palm on the table. "This is lunacy! Are we seriously entertaining a conversation brought to us through an explosion? The boy has no authority, no crown, no loyalty—"
"He has fire," Seralyne cut in quietly, but with enough sharpness to make him flinch. "And more courage than any of us sitting here arguing over pride."
Tharion finally stirred.
"Enough," he said, voice low and commanding. "We will not speak of his arrival as if it was a performance. He came with news—whether you like the delivery or not."
"But Your Majesty," another lord piped up. "It could be a trap. The Tempest Queen has never involved herself in our matters. Why now?"
"Because Sylvathar is no ordinary demon," Tharion replied. "He's a Demon Lord. I've heard whispers of his kind during the Demon War. Demons that could twist the land, command nature itself. If he is on Amthar..."
He trailed off, face hardening.
"We won't survive him alone."
Gasps and murmurs again—but this time, laced with fear, not dismissal.
"So... will we accept the Queen's invitation?" Seralyne asked softly, her tone hopeful. "For the alliance?"
Tharion didn't answer immediately. He looked at her, at the assembled council, then out through the high window where the Solaran sun still shone.
"We will attend the meeting in two days," he declared. "I will speak with Queen Lucy myself. But understand this—if Galen's words are true… then the survival of Solara, of Amthar, may hinge on unity."
He looked toward the doors once more.
"And if war is coming… we will not face it with arrogance. We'll face it together."
In the hall beyond the courtroom, Galen and Magnus walked side by side in silence.
Until Magnus broke it.
"So... you think they bought it?"
Galen didn't look at him. "They don't have to. They just need to show up."
Magnus smirked, hands behind his head. "Always so dramatic. But I gotta say… you do make a hell of an entrance."
Galen gave the faintest curl of a grin.
"Had to make sure the aesthetic was good for the event."
The night was thick with silence. Not even the wind dared to move through the trees. The moon hung high as it's light filtered through heavy clouds. Somewhere far from the three Kingdoms, a hooded figure moved with purpose.
A woman cloaked in black—hood drawn to veil her face—tread lightly over moss-covered stone. Before her stood a jagged wall of earth then she pressed her hand to a particular groove, whispering words only she knew. The stone groaned open, revealing a narrow tunnel lit by flickering torches.
The deeper she walked, the colder it became. Eventually, she arrived in a dimly lit chamber—oval in shape, encircled with ancient symbols carved deep into obsidian walls. At its center sat a throne of roots and bones. And upon it, a figure waited.
Most of his form was visible—tall, lean, and regal in posture. His hands rested gently on the throne's arms, veined and pale. But his face… was drowned in shadows. As if the darkness itself had claimed it.
"You… are the one," she said, her voice steady but cautious. "The one who contacted me through the crystal runes. The one who promised me power."
The figure spoke in a voice that flowed like velvet over blades. Gentle. Kind. But far too perfect.
"Yes," he said. "You have come seeking strength… and I have come seeking a vessel."
He extended his hand, and a goblet emerged from the shadow, ornate and pulsing faintly with green light.
The woman reached out. She sniffed the contents—and recoiled.
"This smells like rot," she whispered, grimacing. "What is this?"
She tried to hand it back.
But then—his eyes opened.
A glowing, unnatural green cut through the dark, illuminating nothing but terror. The room felt like it inhaled with her.
"Drink it," he said again—this time with a tone like iron dressed in silk.
She froze. The power in his eyes—like being stared at by something far older than she could think.
The moment the liquid touched her tongue, her eyes rolled back. She dropped the goblet, her limbs twisting violently as she hit the cold stone. Her body arched and convulsed, mouth open in a silent scream.
Instead, he whispered softly to himself.
"One step closer," he murmured. "One more vessel complete."
He leaned forward, ever so slightly.
"And once the Princess of Light is in my grasp… my truth power would be unleashed, my army with grow, and father who acknowledge me as well."