[Kra'lor City – Zuni Empire]
The table was round, ancient, and blacker than obsidian—its surface rippling faintly with enchanted darkness. At its center, a glowing map of the known realms pulsed like a living heart, pinpoints of golden flame marking every known stronghold, front, and hidden site.
Six high-backed chairs surrounded it, each wrought from blacksteel and inlaid with gold filigree.
Only five were occupied.
The sixth—empty—felt like a wound.
A warning.
"Explain to me," came a voice like falling ash, dry and cold.
"How we lost the Black Legion and our entire stable of beasts and beastmasters."
The speaker was Archmage Lago, pale and hairless, with skin stretched tight over bone and eyes as black as the void. He didn't raise his voice—he never needed to. Terror clung to his words like frost.
Opposite him sat a woman as beautiful as he was dreadful—Sera Fen, the Night Reaper. Her features were angelic: pale gold hair, sky-blue eyes, lips touched with an almost motherly smile.
But her soul was a blade.
"Tyrant Bex has been taking our entire beast stable on campaign for over two years," she replied smoothly. "That's the reason the war tilted in our favor. He was our blunt instrument. Effective. Brutal. Unsustainable." She didn't flinch. "We gave him too much leash."
A long silence followed.
Each of the others—commanders and archmages alike—sat motionless. Still processing. Still calculating.
The empty chair flickered briefly with ambient power before going still.
A chair reserved for a monster now turned corpse.
And then—
A hiss.
Not air. Not steam.
Something alive.
A sound that made even the commanders twitch—hands drifting toward blades, spells half-formed in silent preparation.
From the shadows behind the table, a figure emerged—or more accurately, a presence.
They called him Terror.
Second Commander of the Terror Legion.
Genderless, raceless, faceless.
Shrouded in cloaks that shifted like oil on water, blacker than night, darker than magic.
Only his voice escaped the veil.
Low. Gleeful.
"He will know," Terror said. "They have Bex's body, so he will know." A strange, hideous chuckle followed. "And he will come."
The room held its breath.
Lago exhaled, his breath visibly misting in the cold, unnatural air. "Not even Telamon will step into the belly of the beast," he said.
But his tone lacked conviction.
And every one of them heard it.
The black runes encircling the chamber surged to life—pulsing with eerie brilliance—before dimming into a focused, unnatural glow. It was as though the room itself had been caught beneath the gaze of a divine eye.
Then—
A crack.
A soundless shatter.
The defensive wards collapsed.
The air thickened, dense as water. Every breath felt like drowning.
A rift opened at the center of the chamber.
And a man stepped through.
Clad in white, short-haired, clean-shaven.
He carried no weapons.
He radiated no power.
And yet—he terrified them.
Archmage Telamon, Dean of the Ora Magi Academy, had arrived.
And the world remembered its place.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't brandish magic.
"I'm here to address your violation of the Rule of War Pact," Telamon said evenly, like a tutor reprimanding unruly children. "You opened a full-scale rift on the front. I am seeking reparations."
Across the table, Lago rose. He had spent decades clawing for strength—rituals, sacrifices, forbidden knowledge. But in Telamon's presence, all of it felt meaningless. A drop before the ocean.
He swallowed.
"Are we the only ones bending rules, Archmage?" Lago said carefully. "You wiped out the Black Legion. With four non-elite battalions. That should have been impossible. You interfered. That also violates the Pact."
"I did not," Telamon replied.
The words were calm. Still.
But they carried weight.
"We can debate," he added, "if you'd like to call me a liar."
Death surged toward Lago.
He felt it.
Real, immediate, final.
He shook his head fast enough to blur. "No. Of course not."
"Then I await your offer."
"If you want reparations," Lago said, trying to reclaim his composure, "then I must demand an explanation. How was the Black Legion destroyed?"
Telamon nodded once.
"An artifact. Crafted by a student of mine. He acted alone—concept, material sourcing, rune-work, binding. I will vouch for that."
Sera Fen—the Night Reaper—spoke for the first time.
Her voice, usually velvet-lined with cruelty, cracked.
"How?" she whispered. "How is that possible?"
Her confidence had splintered.
She had reached Archmage status only recently—and thought herself elevated.
But Telamon's mere presence made her want to flee.
"You asked for an explanation," Telamon said without looking at her. "I have given one."
"It's not enough," Lago said quickly, too quickly. "If you want reparations, that is not enough."
Telamon laughed.
A single thread of his aura slipped loose.
It hit the room like a tidal wave—blasting every occupant from their seat. Every rune flared. The black table cracked down the middle. Shadows screamed and fled to the corners.
Only Lago and Sera remained upright—barely.
"Then we shall handle this," Telamon said, "in the old way."
"No!" Lago shouted, his face pale with sweat. "That's not what I meant!"
He raised both hands. "I… I propose an amendment to the Rules of War. No artifacts capable of this level of destruction should be permitted."
Telamon tilted his head, expression unreadable.
"Possible," he said at last. "And in return?"
Lago didn't hesitate. "We'll return the territories of Vesh and Toridil, and pull our front line back to the Aegis River."
The silence that followed was crushing.
Telamon tapped his cane once.
A rune flared to life beneath his feet—simple, perfect.
"Accepted," he said.
"Send the new terms to King Hellion."
He vanished.
No flash. No sound.
Just absence.
The runes dimmed.
The darkness exhaled.
And the Chamber of Six sat in stunned silence, their number now truly feeling like five.
[The Archmage's Office – Late Morning]
Sofie sat outside the Archmage's office in her civilian clothes, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes darted around the room—wide, curious, trying to absorb every detail.
She was enjoying her time off, part of her quiet reward for supporting Cane during the creation of the Interwoven Adamantium Glacial-Infused Battle Robes for the graduating seniors. Her visit to see Mira had been cut short by a courier bearing an invitation from Telamon himself.
A faint pulse of magic shimmered on the neck rune of the Archmage's assistant.
"Right away, Archmage," the older woman said, her voice warm and her smile genuine. She turned to Sofie. "He will see you now, dear."
"Thank you," Sofie replied, rising and smoothing her skirt. She stepped through the open door and bowed respectfully.
Inside, Archmage Telamon waited, flanked by Professor Brammel, Selene Morva, and Ignasius. All eyes turned toward her.
"Please, have a seat, Sofie," Telamon said, gesturing to the lone empty chair.
"Yes, Archmage." She sat with perfect posture—composed, polite, and still visibly wondering why she was here.
"Do you know why we asked you here today?" Telamon asked.
Sofie's eyes flicked right. Then left. Then right again.
"Is… is this about the kitchen raid?" she asked cautiously. "The one I may have taken part in? With Cane and his friends?"
Brammel made a visible effort to keep a straight face.
"No," Telamon said.
Sofie bit her lip and glanced upward, as if the ceiling held the secrets she sought. "Did I… burn something?"
This time, Brammel had to turn away, his shoulders shaking silently.
Telamon smiled. The girl radiated sincerity like sunlight. "No. Quite the opposite."
He folded his hands. "I'm restarting a tradition—morning and afternoon announcements. Something we did years ago to keep students aware of events beyond the Academy walls."
"Oh!" Sofie's face lit up. "That sounds lovely."
"Indeed," Telamon nodded. "Which brings us to the point—I'd like you to leave your kitchen duties and become our voice. You'll deliver the announcements daily. The role comes with a pay increase and a dorm upgrade."
Sofie blinked, stunned—and then beamed.
"I accept," she said brightly.
Every senior staff member in the room smiled, quietly charmed.
A few minutes later, Sofie exited the office, trying very hard not to skip down the corridor.
Inside, Brammel finally let loose a hearty laugh.
"She thought she was in trouble—and the worst thing she could imagine was a kitchen raid and maybe burning a biscuit."
He wiped a tear from his eye. "Ask Cane that question and we'd be here all day listing his sins."
Lorna Sweetwater re-measured the hang of the glacier-blue cape draped over Cane's shoulders. Her fingers worked with deft familiarity, tugging and smoothing with practiced care.
"Placing hidden clasps near the shoulders was brilliant, Cane."
Cane smiled, a little self-conscious in the full set of gleaming Salt armor. "I saw something like it on Knight Captain Meya Rowe," he admitted, adjusting the edge of his gauntlet.
That earned a pause.
"You met Knight Captain Rowe?" Lorna repeated, eyebrows rising—not just for herself, but for the benefit of her two longtime friends who had come by to visit. Her daughter hadn't brought home some quiet little minnow after all.
"Yep," Cane said, fiddling with the hood. "She used to be a student at the Academy. Gave me some advice. Great posture, by the way—very hard to replicate."
"The hood's hanging in your eyes," Lorna noted. "Hold still."
Sophie's mother had been in the back room chatting with her friends when Cane walked in looking for a hooded cape to match his new armor. She hadn't expected to spend the afternoon tailoring gear for a young man who was suddenly name-dropping war heroes like they were classmates.
"Why were you in the capital?" Lorna asked as she trimmed the edge of the hood.
"Fergis and I went with Archmage Telamon and Brammel," Cane replied. "Attended an auction."
"Did you buy anything nice?" Lorna asked, eyes twinkling as she turned slightly—just enough to catch her friend's jealous expression.
"A few things for my team," Cane said. "And some dresses and shoes… for Sophie."
Lorna's needle paused for half a heartbeat.
"I do love the fashion from the capital," she said smoothly, reattaching the hood's clasp with a practiced flick. "There. Perfect. What do you think?"
Cane glanced in the mirror. The glacier-blue armor shimmered under the soft shop lighting, and the trimmed hood now framed his face without slipping down.
"I like it," he said. "Oh—almost forgot. I bought a new dining table for you guys."
Lorna froze.
Weeks earlier, a Shadow Wolf incursion had left the Sweetwater home damaged. The rift had torn part of the dining room apart. Though the structure was repaired, their table hadn't survived. Dagan, Lorna's husband, had cobbled something together from leftover lumber—but it was more of a splinter trap than furniture.
Cane turned slightly, catching the surprise in her eyes. "I tried to match the original."
Lorna swallowed, her voice softer now. "That was… very thoughtful."
The door burst open.
"Cane?" Sophie skidded in, face bright with excitement—until she saw him on the small platform, mid-fitting. "What are you doing here?"
Cane grinned. "Am I not allowed?"
Sophie rolled her eyes, stepping up and kissing his cheek. "I got promoted! Or—technically not a promotion. A whole new job!"
"Dear?" Lorna asked, brows raised with quiet caution. She had always hoped her daughter would settle into the family shop one day. But Sophie had dreams that spilled far beyond thread and linen.
"I'm going to be the new voice of the Academy!" Sophie said, nearly bouncing. "I'll do the morning and afternoon announcements. Telamon's restarting the tradition—he wants students to stay aware of world events."
Lorna's hesitation melted instantly. She wrapped her daughter in a proud, motherly hug.
"I'm so proud of you, dear."
Sophie hugged her back tightly, her smile softening. "Thanks, Mom."
From behind them, one of Lorna's friends whispered to the other, not quite quietly enough:
"I told you he was one of the good ones."