The passage leading into the heart of the fortress was flanked by towering pillars, each having carved into it a Hel-knight standing in solemn vigil. Beneath their feet, weathered plaques bore inscriptions—oaths, deeds, and epitaphs of warriors of the Order. Their silent stares cast an unseen weight upon Vaidvelis and his retinue as they advanced.

  At last, they reached the great council doors, their surfaces etched with runes in protective rhymes that pulsed faintly in the dim torchlight.

  Without a word, Lord Malthren stepped forward alone. The great doors parted just enough to allow him entry before sealing shut behind him with a low thud.

  Vaidvelis waited.

  The Hel-knight sentinels standing guard remained utterly still, their hollow visors betraying no sign of life—nor need for it. The flickering torches cast jagged shadows across their armor, their forms unshaken by the chill drafts that swept through the hall.

  Then, at last, the doors groaned open once more. Malthren emerged, his complexion unchanged. He gave no indication of the council’s mood—only a slight tilt of his head as he gestured for Vaidvelis to proceed.

  The envoy stepped forward.

  Beyond the threshold, the Seers’ Council Chamber awaited.

  At the chamber’s center lay a broad stone platform, a place for petitioners to stand before the council. Towering above, the half-moon obsidian tribunal dominated the room, its dark surfaces veined with pale scripts made up by filling etched carvings with bone ash—each marking the function and domain of its seated Seer.

  Suspended above them, witchflames drifted in slow arcs, their spectral glow stretching the shadows of the council members into long, distorted silhouettes that twisted along the chamber’s vast walls.

  At the heart of it all, the High Seer’s seat loomed upon a raised dais. Unlike the others, it bore no inscription—only a large and imposing bone.

  The nine wraith-seers awaited, their hollow gazes settling upon Vaidvelis as he stepped forward.

  A voice, hollow yet sharp as a knife’s edge, cut through the cold silence.

  "I welcome thee, Vaidvelis, envoy of the Umbral Society, to the Seer Council of Hel's Order."

  The speaker sat toward the left of the half-moon tribunal, their form barely distinguishable from the heavy shadows that clung to them. Their rune-marked seat bore the symbol of a withered tree, denoting their dominion—the arcane Blight.

  "You walk under this roof bearing the weight of past pacts squandered on short gambles, like all the lives of the living. Malthren has already told us that you seek to regain a new alliance. But the Order is tired of the petty politics of the western lands, where thou art ever changing and fickle. It is us whom have upheld every bargain and treaty."

  The other eight figures remained silent, though some shifted in their seats. One drummed spectral fingers against the arm of their seat in slow contemplation. Another, wreathed in violet light, tilted their head as if studying him from some unseen angle with amusement. The High Seer, seated above them all, gave no sign of acknowledgment.

  Vaidvelis allowed a measured pause before speaking. His voice was steady, carrying the weight of experience and the careful choice of words his station demanded.

  "Honored Seers, I bring more than the promises of old pacts—I bring the weight of a shifting world. The eastern front strains beneath the ever more unified effort of the Blood Boyars and their newfound allies in the children of Morozko. Indeed, this news has not gone unnoticed. The eastern coasts have been fractured and isolated, have they not? What I offer is not mere words, but your own necessity—an accord that does not preserve, but retakes."

  His gaze passed over the assembled seers. The chamber remained still, yet the air was thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts.

  A figure seated at the tribunal’s center shifted. Their seat bore a turning spiral—a sigil of foresight. When they spoke, their voice carried the weight of distant echoes.

  "We have foreseen crisis before, envoy. We have watched enemy factions dissolve into dust before. Yet it is the Order who remains. Time bends to the dead, not the other way around. Why should we be swayed by war’s passing winds now?"

  Murmurs, half-formed whispers, coiled through the air. Then, from the far right of the tribunal, a rasping voice cut through them all.

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  "I know of this one."

  The flickering lights dimmed, as if the chamber itself held its breath. The wraith who had spoken sat where the tribunal dipped inward, their seat marked by the symbol of a shattered chain and a description which read: Odrhan the Warden—a wraith warrior freed from physical form. Their presence carried the scent of old blood and rusted iron, a lingering memory of battlefields long past.

  Their hollow gaze fixed upon Vaidvelis.

  "The Keep of the Silver Tongue. You were there when, after weeks, we wrenched it from the Boyar’s grasp, when the ice of the Angis melted into a river of blood from both sides," the wraith murmured. "On the mouth of the frozen river Angis, there where our allies forsook us after many boisterous declaratives in the first days."

  Vaidvelis met the specter’s gaze without hesitation.

  "I remember, as I remember you Odrhan, though you were still corporeal back then."

  The silence lingered, a vast and unseen weight pressing down upon the chamber. Then the wraith of the shattered chain spoke again, its voice like a blade dragged across stone.

  "Then you ought to understand," the Odrhan said, "why words alone will not suffice here. What’s more, it proved to me and many comrades there and then that it was only the Order that could be trusted to endure, to last forever."

  At that, the others stirred—some in interest, others in doubt. The council had truly begun its deliberation.

  "Tell us, Vaidvelis," the wraith continued, their hollow voice laced with something unreadable. "When even Aurelia committed itself to the great incursion and the armies of the west had been decimated in the first battle, what did we do?"

  Vaidvelis did not hesitate.

  "You made a stand and endured, pushed back only minimally until Aurelia was forced into a retreat."

  "We endured despite the weakness and treachery of allies. And we won, not the Darklands, no, we won." Their head tilted slightly. "And yet you stand before us now, a creature of the western alliances, of the shifting oaths and diplomatic tongues, seeking once more to bind Hel’s Order to another temporary faction not of our making. Why should we again entertain this? Indeed, many call instead for the Order to focus itself westwards now that it is once again under a crisis of its own making."

  Vaidvelis let the words settle like a drawn breath before the plunge. The chamber’s silence was thick with expectation, but he did not flinch. His silver gaze passed over the assembled wraith-seers, measuring them as they measured him.

  "You speak of endurance as though it were triumph," he continued, his voice calm yet edged with something sharper. "But to endure is not to rule, nor is it to shape the world. The Order has withstood every storm, yet what has it built? You stood firm against Aurelia, yet it was others who broke its back. You held your borders against the Blood Boyars, yet they grow stronger still. You speak of the West's crises, yet you did not exploit them—you simply waited, and now a new host has risen. Ever so watchful, ever unbroken… yet never reaching for victory."

  A ripple of something—discontent, interest, perhaps even amusement—passed through the tribunal. The seer marked by the turning spiral of foresight did not move, but the shadows about their seat twisted ever so slightly. The warrior of the shattered chain remained still, but the flickering embers of their spectral presence burned a fraction brighter.

  "And now," Vaidvelis pressed on, "the eastern front falters, and the Order remains as it always has—resolute, enduring, yet reactive. You see yourselves as the eternal pillar amidst shifting sands, but like great rocks at a riverbed when left to bear against the erosion of time alone, little remains but a petty stone. I do not come offering another fragile alliance. I come offering war—war with purpose. Not a struggle to hold, but a campaign to claim."

  A low murmur slithered through the chamber, whispers layered upon whispers.

  "You endured Aurelia’s wrath," he continued, his voice steady. "Now tell me, did it in the end fear you? Or did it fear the tides of the West that clawed against its gates a mere year later? You endure, but you do not instill dread."

  A sharp silence followed his words. The wraith of the shattered chain leaned forward ever so slightly, the ghost of a sneer in their hollow voice.

  "A bold tongue," they mused. "Tell me then, what does the Dark Host offer that we could not take for ourselves?"

  At that moment, Vaidvelis reached beneath his cloak and drew forth a small relic—a small obsidian vial filled with a swirling, pale-blue liquid. Its surface shimmered with a light both eerie and unearthly, and as he held it aloft, the relic pulsed with the promise of ancient power.

  "Observe," Vaidvelis declared, his voice resonant with conviction, "this relic, the tear of Algae, is but a fragment of the power I bring. Drawn from forgotten rituals, it channels a potent death curse that can alter the tide of war when used on the proper target. But I offer more than this single token—there are relics hidden in the darkened crevices of this world, relics potent enough to tip the balance of power forever in favor of the Darklands."

  As Vaidvelis held the relic aloft, one of the seated wraiths, marked by a twisting thorned circle, leaned forward. His voice was sharp.

  "Show it to me."

  He extended a spectral hand, taking the obsidian vial from Vaidvelis’s grip. The vial pulsed with an unsettling energy as the Seer stared at it. A brief, whispered chant echoed through the chamber, and the glow of the vial intensified for a moment.

  "It is authentic," the Seer confirmed, his voice cold. "A curse bound within the relic, potent and real. This power is no illusion."

  He handed the vial back, and with a silent nod, returned to his seat.

  A moment stretched between the envoy and the tribunal, tension like a coiled wire. Then the High Seer, who had remained silent all this time, finally moved. Not much—just a single, deliberate gesture.

  "Enough," their voice, distant and layered, cut through the chamber. "We have heard your words, envoy of the Umbral Society."

  They turned their veiled gaze toward the gathered seers.

  "We will deliberate."

  The massive black doors behind Vaidvelis groaned as they began to open once more. The wraiths that had encircled the chamber drifted further into the gloom. The audience was over.

  For now.