The Royal Court of Velmora
The Court of Velmora was not its usual self. The stained glass windows let in soft rays of morning light, but no warmth came with them.
The hall, vast and echoing, felt like a tomb.
Shadows gathered in the corners, and silence hung over the court like a funeral veil.
King Halric Velmora sat upon the high throne of carved obsidian and darkwood, aged more by grief than by time. The crown rested heavily upon his silvering hair, and his eyes — once sharp with vision — now drifted with the weight of regret.
Arrayed before him stood the pillars of the realm.
Four dukes, silent and grave.
Duke Drenlor of the West — tall, austere, and hard-jawed — stood as if he were carved from the same stone as the throne dais.
His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere beyond the court walls. He had not spoken since the survivors returned.
Duke Thamric of the North, father to the fallen Adam, was a shadow of his former self. His cloak was deep mourning black, and his voice cracked when he finally broke the silence.
"Only eleven." The words trembled from his mouth. "Seventy-two of our kingdom's finest… and only eleven return."
No one interrupted.
The tension was too thick, the grief too fresh.
"And my son…" Thamric's voice grew hoarse. "My heir… Adam. Slain. Not by beast. Not by the mountain's wrath. But by that ...Devil"
The name devil struck the air like flint on steel. A flicker of unease lit through the gathered court.
From the side, Master Caldus stepped forward. The aged scholar wore robes frayed at the hem, his fingers ink-stained and trembling.
His voice was hushed — not by fear, but shame.
"This expedition… was mine to lead," he said, his eyes never rising from the floor.
"The theory of the relic, the Veilspire scripts… the decision to include the elite was based on sound potential. But I warned the Crown. I warned all of you — the risks were always clear."
King Halric's voice came slow and low.
"You shared the risk, yes. And that saves you from the gallows. But not from judgment."
Master Caldus bowed his head in silence.
"We sought a relic," the king continued, "a gift from the old world, sealed in the heart of the mountain. I dreamed it would restore Velmora's waning power. Instead, we return with grief. With death. And stories of some… shadowed murderer."
He looked to Duke Thamric. "This 'devil' you name… what is it?"
Duke Thamric clenched his jaw, fury trembling just beneath the surface. When he spoke, his voice was low, guttural — a growl carved from grief and rage.
"He was a bastard," Thamric spat.
"A wretch in black, with no name, no house, no honor. Our students helped him — helped him — to bring down that cursed undead guardian beneath the mountain. And how did he repay them?"
He turned, eyes sweeping the court, accusing.
"He plundered them. And when my son — when Adam — rose his voice to stop him… he was struck down. Cut down like a traitor. My boy! Killed by the very man he fought beside."
The court stiffened. A breathless pause followed.
"This is not some wandering shade or tragic figure. This is a man who dares raise steel against the future of Velmora. A man who sees no law but his own hand. His actions are not misfortune — they are defiance."
Thamric's voice rang out louder now, echoing from the pillars.
"He has issued an open challenge to this kingdom. And if we do not answer it… then we are no kingdom at all."
Murmurs rose at last among the nobles and counts gathered at the fringes of the court.
"Could he be a traitor among the expedition?"
"No… none recognized him."
"A sorcerer, perhaps. The mountain stirs strange powers."
"Or worse," one count whispered. "One of the Forgotten. A relic given flesh."
The king raised a hand — but the storm was beginning to break.
"A monster, then!"
"An assassin sent by a rival kingdom!"
Voices shouted over one another now. Fear and speculation mixed like oil and fire. The name Veilspire already sounded cursed.
Duke Drelor finally stirred. His voice came like the slow grind of ancient stone.
"My son Kael returned," he said. "He spoke little. Too little. But what he did say confirms the boy's death… and the presence of this 'devil.'"
"And what did Kael call him?" the king asked.
Drelor's brow furrowed.
"He did not give him a name. Only a warning — that he was not of our world. That if we chase him… we may find more than we wish."
A deeper silence fell. Not fear this time — dread.
A heavy sigh escaped the lips of King Halric,
"Our kingdom bleeds," he said. "Not from blade alone — but from within."
The court fell silent.
"Mana thins," the king continued, eyes cast downward. "The veins of power that once ran strong through our soil, our bloodlines, our spellforged halls — they dry with each passing season. Our magicians grow fewer. Each year we send fewer to the academy, and more to the grave. If this continues… Velmora will crumble to dust."
A murmur of unease rippled through the nobles.
"I will not be remembered as the king who let his forefathers' legacy rot from within," Halric said, jaw tight. "But we are running out of time — and answers."
From among the ministers gathered near the dais, a pale man in dark robes stepped forward — Chancellor Belvain, voice measured, cautious.
"There may still be paths forward, Your Majesty. We could seek assistance from the Night Church… or the Temple of the Wargod. Both have ancient rites. Forbidden perhaps — but powerful."
Duke Drenlor of the West scoffed.
"The Night Church offers riddles and curses. And the Wargod's zealots only demand war without purpose. They have nothing to give — only take. Do not mistake desperation for wisdom, Chancellor."
Belvain opened his mouth to protest, but before the words came, the grand doors of the court burst open with a thunderclap.
A courier stumbled into the chamber, eyes wide with terror, parchment clutched in shaking hands. His voice rang out, high and panicked.
"Your Majesty! Urgent news from the North — the kingdom of Astania has declared full rebellion! Their banners rise in the Frostmarsh. The outposts at the border are falling — we are losing the battle!"
The hall fell into stunned silence after the courier's words.
Then, all at once, the weight struck.
King Halric swayed on the throne, one hand clenching his chest, his breath shallow, uneven.
His eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto nothing — as though staring through the court itself.
"My gods…" he whispered. "Not the North. Not now."
His crown slipped slightly as he lurched forward.
"Majesty!" a steward cried.
Duke Drenlor was at his side in moments, firm hands steadying the king before he collapsed. He spoke low, calm.
"Easy, Halric. Breathe. The crown does not fall with a single blow."
The king inhaled slowly, blinking the haze from his eyes. But the moment of fragile calm shattered at once with the voice of Duke Thamric — Adam's father, Duke of the Northern Marches — rising in fury.
"They come now, like jackals in winter!"
He stepped forward, eyes burning.
"My son is dead. My province bleeds. And now Astania dares rebel? Let them taste death."
He turned to the court, voice echoing off the black stone columns.
"You speak of waiting? Of sending envoys? No. I am the North. I will not let Velmora die while we stand in circles."
He tore the sigil-pin from his chest and cast it to the ground.
"This is no longer a debate. I go."
And without another word, he turned and stormed from the hall, his cloak trailing behind like a banner of war. The great doors slammed shut in his wake.
King Halric reached after him feebly.
"No… not like this…"
He sank back against the throne, face pale. He looked to Drenlor, eyes pleading.
Drenlor nodded once, solemn.
"I will go as well."