The tall, ornate doors of the sacred hall creaked open, their weight making the hinges groan in a low echo that rolled across the marble floor. From the corridor beyond, Sapphira emerged like a vision from a painting, clad in a flowing gown of deep green silk that shimmered subtly with each step, the hue mirroring the cascade of her long, emerald hair. Light from the high arched windows caught in her tresses, weaving gold into green.
Her gaze swept forward and settled upon Eric Adamos.
He stood in the vast, high-ceilinged hall alone, the cold of the endless winter still clinging to him in the form of a thick brown fur coat that hung over his travel-worn attire. Outside, the land had been locked in snow for months without reprieve, and wearing such coats had become not just customary but a survival necessity. The faint scent of frost and wet leather lingered around him.
Eric’s white locks fell forward as he lowered his head in a deep bow. Behind Sapphira, two Iron Saints paced in silent formation, tall and broad, their presence filling the hall with an unspoken weight. They wore their golden masks, wrought in stern and unyielding expressions that seemed almost alive. Even a seasoned count such as Eric felt a sliver of caution stir within him under their watch.
Only when Sapphira ascended the dais and sank gracefully into her throne of carved onyx and silver did she speak, clearing her throat softly, a sound that carried authority. Eric straightened himself with measured composure, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the strain of his journey.
"To what," Sapphira began, her voice smooth but edged with steel, "do we owe this visit?" Her words were deliberate, her choice of the plural pointed, acknowledging not just herself, but Asher, the absent king, whose shadow still lingered in the hall.
Eric’s voice came low and steady, though it bore the weight of desperation. "It’s been seven months since the merchants from Sacred Flame ceased supplying grain, Your Majesty. My subjects are dying like flies. The famine has spread to the ends of the continent, fields that once yielded plenty now lie barren under a cursed frost. Towns and villages are no more, either abandoned or torn apart by rebellion against their lords. Blood stains the snow. I fear the same may soon befall my own lands, my own castle."
The words carved deep lines into his temples, the kind forged by sleepless nights and the unending calculations of a ruler fighting to keep his people alive. Beneath the dignity of his posture, there was a silent plea, raw and unpolished.
Sapphira’s lashes lowered as she shut her eyes, a shadow crossing her expression. She knew the truth. This famine was not born solely of the abyss creeping across the land, it was of her own making. She had poured all her strength into sustaining Ashbourne, willing its fields to flourish, its orchards to bear in abundance while the rest of the continent withered.
It was a gamble, a grave sacrifice that risked her name and her soul, but one that, in time, would force kingdoms, empires, and free cities alike to bend knee for the lifeblood of grain. In the marketplace of survival, Ashbourne would be the only seller.
Her teeth pressed together, the bite of guilt sharp and lingering. Pain pulsed behind her composure as she lifted her chin. "You are a loyal ally," she said, her tone steady despite the storm inside. "And there is a tie between us, your son and my husband’s sister. For this bond, and this bond alone, we shall give you five thousand sacks of wheat, corn, and barley each... and one thousand Moonlight Starhorn Cows."
Eric’s eyes widened, the light within them briefly rekindled. He dropped to one knee, the sound of it ringing faintly against the stone. "Your Majesty...!"
Sapphira’s lips curved into the gentlest of smiles, though the warmth in it did not quite reach her eyes.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of bootsteps on marble. From the far end of the hall, Kelvin entered, his presence brisk yet respectful. He stopped beside Eric, bowed low, and raised his voice. "Your Majesty, House El seeks an audience with you."
In the heart of a fierce blizzard, a dozen men astride white wolves tore across the endless expanse, their fur-lined cloaks snapping violently in the wind. Snow whipped through the air like a thousand shards of glass, biting at their faces and numbing their fingers despite the thick gloves. At the forefront rode Asher, astride Sirius, the great wolf whose silver-white coat gleamed even through the storm’s fury. Sirius stood a full head taller than the others, its muscles rippling beneath its fur, its stride powerful and measured despite the snowdrifts. Even in this reduced size, the beast’s presence commanded awe and fear alike.
And it rode beside two great beasts, Shura, the pet beast of Zenas and El, the pet beast of Zorah.
"You learn fast," Zorah remarked over the howling wind, his deep voice carrying the weight of both respect and curiosity. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, lifted to the distant rise of a hill looming through the shifting curtain of snow.
"That is where the dead of House Nubis reside." His gaze lingered there, as though seeing beyond the ice and stone, into a place where mortal eyes had no right to tread. He then turned to Asher, his tone growing heavier. "Our feud has bled through the mortal realm into the spirit one. We shall camp here while you retrieve your sword."
Zenas, riding at Asher’s other side, broke in with a firm retort. "There is no need for that. I and the men behind me are enough to protect him but it should not come to that. Walking in there with a weapon is expecting it to fail, and failure is not an option." His piercing gaze locked onto his son’s. "The Abyss isn’t what we can fight alone." The words hung in the frozen air like a warning carved in stone.
Zorah exhaled slowly, his breath turning to mist that vanished into the blizzard. "Truthfully," he admitted, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, "I just wanted to see the sword. It’s already been a month, the Kingmaker should be done." Leaning closer to Asher, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, one meant only for the King’s ears.
Then, with a subtle grin, he straightened in his saddle, and the two of them spurred their wolves forward, riding after Zenas as the storm howled on around them.