A council meeting. It was one of the few things that Prince Aerimus truly identified with. He took great pride in his role as the Warmaster of Tyrancia, even if others did not share that sentiment. As he strode into the grand council chambers, the lavish décor immediately caught his eye. Sapphire and silver banners, emblazoned with a gryphon — heraldry of the House of Elric — adorned the walls, casting a regal atmosphere over the room. Candlelit chandeliers flickered with delicate flames, casting the chamber in an orange glow. At the far end of the room, raised upon three stone steps, stood the massive council table. Though it was smaller than the dining hall table, it was no less impressive, with intricate carvings etched into its surface. The centrepiece of the table was an elaborate map of Loria, finely engraved with intricate detail. It depicted the Kingdoms across each continent, from the distant lands of Mahargor and the Elven realms of Ilthalas, Lothlor, and Selenia, to the neighbouring kingdoms of Cassia, Ardor, and the Dwarven kingdoms of Thorgrim, Barrum, and Dol Guldor.

  The table had been a gift from King Thuron of Dol Guldor to High King Denethys of Tyrancia two hundred and thirty-three years ago, following the Dwarven Rebellion when Dol Guldor sought to expand its dominion by marching south. After their eventual surrender, Dol Guldor had been brought under Tyrancia’s rule — until High King Alistair granted them independence eight years ago. The move had earned Alistair both praise and criticism; some nobles lauded his mercy and respect, while others, like Aerimus, saw it as a sign of weakness. Aerimus was convinced that Dol Guldor’s rebellious tendencies had not been quelled, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the dwarves rose up again.

  Around the table sat eight council chairs. Three of them were for Elrics: High King Alistair Elric, Prince Darion Elric, the Ambassador who favoured diplomacy, and Prince Aerimus Elric, the Warmaster, who commanded the military. The other seats were for Albaric Dayne the Steward, Dacian Fitzgerald the Justiciar, Arvin Parlour the Treasurer, Tomas Vorik the Spymaster, and the Captain of the Royal Guard, Cedric Ashford.

  Aerimus was the first to arrive, settling into his father’s seat at the head of the table — the King’s seat, larger and more opulent than the others. He poured himself a second glass of red wine, the finest in all Tyrancia, and tried his best to neaten his hair and button up his fine leather tunic. It was clear Aerimus had company before the meeting, though there was no telling how many. By the time the next councilman, Dacian, arrived, Aerimus had already drunk four cups. He leaned his head on his fist, a look of annoyance on his face — he was growing tired of waiting.

  “You’re sitting in the King’s seat,” Dacian remarked, his tone edged with offense.

  “Well, the King is not here, is he, Dacian?” Aerimus shot back, his glare sharp.

  Dacian chose not to argue, sitting down and beginning to sift through letters, papers, and books with meticulous attention. The next arrivals were Arvin Parlour and Tomas Vorik, who took their seats without delay. Tomas, a man seasoned in conflict and unafraid to stir the pot, was the first to speak up.

  “Where is the King?” he asked, his voice laced with authority and an air of challenge.

  Aerimus turned his gaze on Tomas with the same condescending stare he had given Dacian moments before.

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  “My brother has injured himself,” he replied curtly, his voice dripping with annoyance, “and my father remains in prayer for his recovery. As Spymaster, I assumed you’d know this already.”

  He paused, his tone growing harsher. “Or should I have the rats of the city do my spying for me?”

  A heavy silence fell over the room as all eyes turned to Tomas for a response.

  “My apologies, Your Highness,” Tomas muttered sarcastically, not daring to escalate the tension further.

  The discussion then turned to the crown's finances, reports from the fiefs of Tyrancia, the deployment of guards around the city, and the unrest in Smuggler's Alley. Just as the conversation began to settle into its usual rhythm, the large wooden doors creaked open with a commanding force.

  A figure strode into the room, his footsteps firm and deliberate. Clad in fine clothes and furs, his intimidating presence was unmistakable. He wore the marks of battle — two deep scars across his face and an opaque grey eye. It was Albaric Dayne, the Steward of Tyrancia, the King’s second-in-command. In council, his authority surpassed even that of Prince Darion and Prince Aerimus, despite Darion being the heir.

  Upon seeing Albaric, Aerimus hesitated, then sheepishly stood, grabbed his goblet and decanter of wine, and returned to his proper seat. Tomas Vorik snickered quietly, but Aerimus shot him a sharp glare, his patience fraying.

  Albaric took his seat with the weight of command.

  “Apologies for the delay, Council,” he said with authority. “I had duties with the King.”

  The council bowed their heads in acceptance, save for Aerimus, who refused to bow to anyone.

  As Albaric was brought up to speed with the earlier discussion, a messenger suddenly entered and passed him a letter, whispering something in his ear. Aerimus’ eyes sharpened, his attention fully on the Steward.

  “What news?” he asked, his voice tight with concern. The rest of the room fell silent, waiting.

  Albaric held up a hand, signalling for patience as he read the letter. His lips moved as he absorbed the contents, then he spoke.

  “Our allies in Dol Guldor have reportedly formed an alliance with the Dwarves of Thorgrim. They are said to be manufacturing weapons and armour, far beyond what would be expected in times of peace.”

  The council exchanged uneasy glances. The news seemed troubling, though it was unclear whether it was truth or mere rumour. After all, forming alliances and arming oneself were common practices.

  Aerimus shook his head, hand pressed to his forehead. “And didn’t I warn you this would happen?” His tone was thick with arrogance.

  “Nothing has happened yet, Prince Aerimus,” Albaric responded calmly. “We should not act in haste. Every kingdom in Loria needs an army, and we all make allies. Should we consider our pending alliance with Lothlor suspicious?”

  Aerimus’ nostrils flared. “Or your own marriage to the ‘finest beauty,’ Floria Harper of Cassia?” Tomas Vorik chuckled, prompting subtle snickers from the others. Aerimus’ anger flared. He shot up from his chair, his face flushed red with fury, as if he were about to burst.

  “Sit down,” Albaric commanded, his voice low but firm.

  Reluctantly, Aerimus sank back into his seat. He could feel the eyes of the council on him, but he was resolute.

  “Last I checked,” Aerimus said through clenched teeth, “Lothlor and Cassia didn’t rebel and try to take our lands.”

  His point was clear, and Tomas even nodded in subtle acknowledgment.

  “You make a valid point, Aerimus,” Albaric conceded. “Though it’s been over two hundred years, some wounds never heal.”

  Albaric then suggested that Tomas deploy more spies to investigate Thorgrim and Dol Guldor, seeking further intelligence. As Dacian nodded off, his head drooping to the side, Albaric slammed his fist on the table, rousing the elderly councilman from his slumber. Dacian blinked awake, quickly offering his apologies.

  “I will speak with the Warmaster on this matter. Excuse us,” Albaric announced, gesturing for the others to leave.