At the very border where Opalcrest’s last verdant hills kissed the ever-frozen highlands of the Everharts, a neutral building had been hastily constructed.
It was grand, despite its temporary purpose. Glistening white pillars lined the entrance, each etched with golden engravings that shimmered even under the dull midday light.
The structure mimicked the interior of a courtroom, though it carried the elegance of a sacred hall.
Ornate tapestries hung like forgotten legacies, and a massive round table sat at the center of the room—dividing the space with an invisible line, yet making that separation unmistakable.
On one side sat the nobles and diplomats of Opalcrest, clad in hues of deep sapphire and emerald, their eyes sharp, voices hushed.
The air around them was tense, a coiled wire ready to snap.
On the opposite side stood the Everharts.
Cold beauty and ethereal grace. Their silver-blue coats swept the marble like frost trails.
Their presence was no less tense, yet far more composed, like still water over a dangerous depth.
A single line—thin as a hair, yet sharp as a blade—ran through the center of the room, bisecting both nations. Neither side dared cross it.
And at the very end of that line, elevated slightly above all else, sat a throne that was neither of Opalcrest nor Everhart design.
It was carved of ivory stone, rimmed with gold and obsidian, with the crest of a falcon etched on its backrest. It radiated regality—not born of bloodline or inheritance—but of presence.
Seated upon that throne, resting his chin lazily against a gloved hand, sat a man whose very existence commanded the room.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
A man who could be mistaken for a statue carved by the gods, if not for the suffocating pressure that oozed off him with every passing second.
His white silvery hair like strands of moonlight, and his eyes—amber like sunlit amber frozen in time—gazed out over the assembly below.
He wore an elegant long white attire, a majestic white coat draped over his shoulders like a cape, untouched by the mortal laws of gravity.
He said nothing. Yet everyone watched him.
A discussion was underway—though it felt more like a performance for the one man above them all.
One of the Opalcrest diplomats, a woman calm and composed, rose to her feet.
Her hair was jet black, a proud signature of her homeland, tied in a disciplined bun.
Her expression was composed, practiced, but her eyes betrayed how heavily the room pressed down on her.
She bowed with the poise of someone trained in courtly manners and addressed the man on the throne.
"Your Highness, Lucian Lancaster," she began, her voice carrying across the chamber with conviction, "We, the people of Opalcrest, acknowledge your deep desire to prevent the coming war. But we implore you to reconsider intervention. The continent of Mythria—our continent—must solve its own conflicts. We ask that the house of Lancaster remain uninvolved."
The words were diplomatic, courteous even—but beneath them was a clear intent: Stay out of our war.
Lucian did not even lift his gaze. He didn’t move from his relaxed posture. With the same idle expression, he raised his gloved hand and made a small, almost careless gesture.
"Next argument," he said. Calmly. Coldly.
Like a guillotine’s drop.
The woman’s face twitched. Barely—but enough. She gritted her teeth, fighting the rising anger threatening to crack her perfect facade. Yet she bowed again and continued.
"We understand the nobility behind your wish to preserve peace, but please consider this," she said, her voice now laced with steel, "We have evidence. The Everharts have committed grave violations against their own citizens. Abuses that go unpunished. These people, though under Everhart rule, are still of Mythria. They are our people. We cannot, in good conscience, turn a blind eye."
This time, Lucian’s gaze lifted.
Amber eyes locked onto her form, and in that single glance—every breath she held crumbled.
The weight of his attention was terrifying.
Her knees nearly buckled, sweat pooling at her back. It was as if his stare alone had dug into her spine.
"Be careful," Lucian said, voice quiet but laced with power. "When speaking of justice... that your hands aren’t bloodier than the ones you accuse."
The silence after his words was deafening.
Then, the King of Opalcrest—Heinau Opalcrest—rose.
A man of average stature with slicked-back black hair and piercing eyes that mirrored the obsidian cliffs of his homeland.
His robe was simple, but his presence was anything but. Every move he made felt rehearsed, yet genuine. The mask of a practiced king.
He motioned to the trembling diplomat beside him to sit.
"My lord Lancaster," Heinau began, his voice soft, almost regretful, "My diplomat merely brought forth what many of our people whisper behind closed doors. Everhart’s treatment of its citizens has become... questionable. And as their brethren on the same continent, we cannot stand idle."
He gestured gently toward the Everhart representatives. "Their reign may be cloaked in snow and civility, but beneath that layer lies frostbite. Rot."
He paused, placing a hand over his heart with a dramatic sincerity that almost seemed real.
"We only seek justice. Not dominance. If the house of Lancaster were to remain neutral, we would respect it—but we must act for the greater good of Mythria."
Lucian stared at him for a long time. Not speaking. Not blinking.
His fingers tapped lightly on the throne’s armrest, echoing louder than any speech.
Then, his lips curved—not into a smile, but into something worse. A knowing expression. A look that said:
I see through all of you.
The room held its breath, waiting for what he’d say next.
But he remained quiet.
Letting silence speak first.
And when he did open his mouth, it was not to speak of war or peace.
It was to ask a single question.
"Tell me," Lucian murmured, "when did pawns learn to preach like kings?"
It was an insult—and not a subtle one. Wrapped in polished words, it still bled contempt, and everyone in the room knew it.
Heinau Opalcrest understood the sting of it far too well.
His hands curled into fists beneath the folds of his robe, but he forced a crooked smile on his face.
Were it anyone else speaking, he would have ordered their immediate execution, made an example of them on the spot.
But Lucian Lancaster was no ordinary man. He was a storm clothed in nobility—a sovereign who could bring empires to their knees with a single breath.
And Heinau was not ready to challenge him. Not yet.
So, with visible strain, he swallowed the insult as if it were tasteless wine, keeping his head high, though the weight of humiliation gnawed at his pride.
The fire in his eyes, however, made it clear—the grudge had been carved.
From the Everhart side, a tall man rose to his feet.
He moved with grace, his silver-white hair gleaming under the faint sunlight filtering through the chamber’s stained glass windows.
His crimson eyes held clarity and command, yet there was a storm behind them—one just beginning to churn.
Kane Everhart, ruler of the Everhart dominion, stood poised, but Heinau’s slander had clearly unsettled him.
"Lord Lancaster," Kane spoke, his voice level but edged with barely restrained fury. "Opalcrest now openly resorts to slandering the name of my kingdom. Everharts are known across Mythria for our discipline, our fairness. We do not mistreat our people as falsely suggested."
Heinau didn’t miss a beat. The corners of his mouth curved into a grin far too wide for a discussion of peace. "Kane Everhart, my old friend," he said mockingly, "we no longer need to rely on rumors. We possess live testimonies—citizens who’ve braved death to reveal the festering truth beneath your kingdom’s pristine image. Your dark secrets will soon be bathed in light. A nation that thrives on cruelty and fear should not have the right to rule."
The words landed heavy.
Another diplomat from the Everhart delegation shot up from his seat, rage flaring in his eyes. "Lord Heinau, this is absurd! You accuse us with nothing but venomous words. For years we’ve sought peace, sent envoys, requested dialogue—and each time, you ignored us. Now you dare accuse us in front of Lord Lancaster, without so much as presenting a single sliver of actual proof?"
"Oh, I assure you," Heinau said smoothly, turning toward Lucian with a theatrical air. "The good work has just arrived."
At once, a squad of Opalcrest soldiers entered the hall, footsteps echoing across the stone floor.
They carried scrolls—thick, bound tightly in golden silk—and a peculiar artifact resembling an orb mounted atop an ornate pedestal, glowing faintly with dormant magic.
Lucian, who had remained eerily silent until now, finally shifted in his seat.
He descended from the high-backed throne-like chair he occupied, his presence so overwhelming that even the air around him seemed to tighten. With a casual gesture, he accepted the scrolls and began reading.
Silence devoured the room.
Each parchment bled with inked confessions and testimonies, some written in trembling script, others neat and precise—but all of them unanimous in one thing: the horrors of Everhart’s treatment of the powerless.
Abuse. Torture. Slaughter.
Accounts of peasants—non-elementals—being mutilated, having their limbs torn off and stitched back onto wooden stands to serve as training mannequins for young nobles.
Entire families starved for sport. Women treated like livestock. Children worked until their bodies broke down. The crimes were not just systematic—they were celebrated among the elite.
Kane’s fists trembled.
Lucian didn’t read beyond the fifth scroll.
His attention drifted to the orb.
Without a word, he extended his hand and released a controlled pulse of mana. The orb glowed, its surface shimmering like disturbed water before bursting into vibrant, horrific life.
A projection appeared in the air.
Moving images. Sounds.
A noble clad in crimson finery lashed a child until the boy fell limp, before laughing and calling for more "practice dummies."
Another scene showed an emaciated woman chained to a wall, her cries muffled by the gag in her mouth, as a group of men laughed about her "worthless bloodline."
Countless scenes unfolded, each darker than the last.
But one particular image made Kane Everhart rise to his feet with sudden force.
There—displayed for all to see—was a child.
No older than ten, white-haired, crimson-eyed, and bound to a pillar. His small frame quivered under the noble’s cruel gaze.
The scene showed him being whipped, then injected with some sort of mana-venom. He didn’t scream. He only stared forward, broken but alive.
Kane’s breath hitched.
The whisper was so faint only those nearest him heard it.
His son. The son he thought dead. Gone... or so he was told.
Alive. Tortured. Imprisoned.
And now, paraded before everyone like some puppet in a theater of atrocities.