Malachar's voice still echoed in the chamber, his shout reverberating like a shockwave. The rest of the Council, all seasoned in their ways, didn’t need more than that. In an instant, the other four members were on their feet. Chairs screeched across the stone floor as Seraphine, Thalor, Lysandra, and Vorian rose in unison, their expressions a mix of disbelief and outrage. Tension thickened the air, like a storm about to break.

  “What is the meaning of this, Maelor?” Thalor’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, his eyes sharp and questioning. The flicker of controlled anger beneath his calm facade was palpable.

  Maelor remained still, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes calm. He had anticipated this—every second of it. The outrage, the confusion, the disbelief. It was natural. Expected. But now came the challenge—navigating through it. He breathed, slowly, letting the room settle around him before speaking.

  “Let’s not leap to conclusions, Councilor,” Maelor said, his voice even, though each word carried the weight of strategy. “We all know what he is. But perhaps we should listen before passing judgment.”

  Lysandra stepped forward, her face set in a frown. “Listen? We exiled his kind for a reason. Their presence here threatens everything we’ve fought to protect.”

  Vorian, who rarely spoke unless he felt something was crucial, added in a cold voice, “You can’t expect us to ignore the danger he poses. A Shadow Celestial in Aether? This is madness.”

  Maelor took in their words, his own thoughts moving like the slow shifting of tectonic plates—calm, deliberate, and powerful. He had expected these reactions, but the fight was in the details, in the calculated moves between words.

  “I do not expect you to ignore the history,” Maelor replied, turning to face the entire council now, eyes locking briefly with each of theirs. “But neither should we be blinded by it. We face new challenges. This… situation,” he gestured slightly toward Thorian, who stood silent but observant at his side, “is an opportunity. A test. One we should not dismiss so quickly.”

  Seraphine, her usually composed face now marked by the tight lines of distrust, was the next to speak. “And what makes you think he won’t bring destruction with him? We’ve seen what his kind can do. Darkness consumes. It corrupts.”

  Malachar, who had been watching Thorian the entire time with eyes full of suspicion, finally spoke again. His voice was calmer this time, but laced with an unmistakable edge of contempt. “You’ve always been a strategist, Maelor. But to bring this into our chamber…? It’s not just strategy—it’s recklessness.”

  The room was bristling, but Maelor stood his ground, his expression unchanging. “You call it reckless,” he said, his tone firm but unprovocative. “I call it necessary. We all know the forces gathering outside Aether’s walls. We’ve seen the signs—fragmented lands, rising dangers. If we are to survive what’s coming, we need every advantage. Including him.”

  Thorian, standing just behind Maelor, remained silent, but his eyes moved carefully over each member of the Council, reading them. He could feel the weight of their gazes, their fear and anger. But he could also feel Maelor’s resolve—calculated, strong, like the earth itself.

  Thalor’s voice rose again, frustration creeping in. “What makes you think we can trust him? You’re asking us to listen to a Shadow Celestial as if history hasn’t already taught us what they’re capable of.”

  Maelor turned to meet Thalor’s gaze, his tone sharpening just slightly, but still maintaining its steady, grounded rhythm. “I’m asking you to consider that history doesn’t always dictate the future. The Council has always prided itself on wisdom, not fear. And if we are to lead, we cannot afford to be driven by fear alone.”

  Lysandra scoffed, her arms crossed tightly. “You speak of wisdom, but wisdom would tell us to expel him. Immediately. This isn’t a debate, Maelor. This is a threat standing in our midst.”

  Maelor met her gaze, unblinking. “Is he more of a threat than what lies outside our borders, waiting for us to be divided? To be weak?”

  There was a silence after that, a stillness in the room as his words hung heavy in the air. Malachar’s fingers drummed on the table, his expression shifting ever so slightly from fury to contemplation. He was still angry—that much was clear—but the High Arcanist never acted without considering every possibility.

  “I see what you’re doing, Maelor,” Malachar said, his voice low but cutting. “You’re testing the Council’s limits. But even you must understand that bringing a Shadow Celestial into Aether is more than a simple risk. It’s inviting disaster.”

  Maelor’s jaw tightened briefly, but he remained calm. “I’m not blind to the risks, High Arcanist. But neither should we be blind to the reality of our situation. The world is changing, and we can’t afford to cling to the past when the future is what’s at stake.”

  The Council shifted, some still tense, others thoughtful. Thorian, though silent, felt the intensity of the moment. It wasn’t just his fate being debated—it was the very nature of Aether’s future. Maelor was staking his reputation, his position, on this.

  Seraphine leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “You’re asking us to gamble everything on the word of one man. On your word, Maelor. If you’re wrong…”

  Maelor interrupted, his voice growing firmer. “If I’m wrong, I’ll bear that burden. But I won’t stand by and let us fall because we were too afraid to act.”

  The room fell into a heavy silence. Even Malachar, known for his cold composure, seemed to weigh Maelor’s words carefully. The battle between them was more than verbal—it was a clash of ideals, of visions for what Aether could and should be.

  Finally, Malachar spoke, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “You are staking a lot on this, Maelor. Perhaps too much... like in the old days.” His face softened, just for a moment, the hardness giving way to something more vulnerable—something almost regretful. There was a quiet sadness in his eyes, a flicker of memory.

  Maelor held his gaze, but his response was cryptic, measured. “Some things are worth the risk. You know that better than anyone.”

  Malachar’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to peel away the layers of meaning behind Maelor's words. And then, something clicked—a deeper understanding, something unspoken between them. His expression shifted, the sorrow deepening but his resolve sharpening. “It seems there’s more to this than meets the eye, Maelor.”

  There was a pause, thick with meaning. Malachar straightened, glancing around at the other Council members before turning back to Maelor. “It’s time we had a private discussion.”

  Maelor gave a slow nod, knowing this was exactly what he had intended all along. Malachar had grasped the deeper threads, the nuances that couldn’t be shared in front of the entire Council. The situation was more delicate than it appeared, and Malachar had sensed it.

  Without another word, Malachar turned toward a smaller, more secluded door at the far side of the chamber. “Follow me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

  Maelor, his face calm but with a quiet determination, followed Malachar out of the council chamber, knowing that the real conversation was about to begin.

  Maelor stepped into the small chamber, noting how different it felt from the grand council room they had just left. It was more intimate, lined with ancient scrolls and maps on every wall. The dim lighting added to the weight of what was about to be discussed. Malachar moved to one corner of the room, leaning slightly against a stone table, his gaze unwavering as Maelor positioned himself opposite, his posture calm, collected.

  For a moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy with the unspoken.

  Finally, Malachar broke it, his voice quiet but cutting straight to the point. "What lies beyond the stillness of your mind, Maelor?" His eyes searched Maelor’s face, knowing that even the most composed of men had secrets buried beneath layers of control. But with Maelor, it was more—a depth that even Malachar had difficulty grasping.

  Maelor allowed the question to settle in the air, his eyes flicking toward a nearby map of Aether before returning to Malachar. "Something you’ve already begun to suspect," he answered, his voice steady, the weight of years behind it. "Thorian saved Taron’s life in the Western Wilds. It wasn’t an accident—they crossed paths for a reason. And it was Taron who insisted on bringing him to Aether."

  Malachar’s brow furrowed, his usual composure cracking slightly, a rare glimpse of frustration surfacing. “Taron? That boy’s barely older than fifteen. He may be talented, but he's too young to understand the risks of this decision.”

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  Maelor’s lips quirked slightly, almost a smile, but far too controlled. “Taron is young, yes. But he has potential—more than most in Aether see. His mind is sharper than you give him credit for. He doesn’t just follow instincts; he calculates risks, sometimes better than I expect.” Maelor paused, his tone deepening. “In fact, Taron’s reasoning for bringing Thorian to Aether mirrors my own. He understood the stakes before anyone else did. And he did it despite the dangers to Aether, and to himself.”

  Malachar studied Maelor for a long moment, processing his words with the weight they deserved. His fingers drummed on the table as his frustration ebbed, giving way to contemplation. “You're telling me that boy... had the same tactical insight as you?” There was a note of surprise in Malachar’s voice, but also intrigue.

  Maelor nodded slightly, his gaze distant but focused. “Taron isn’t just a boy. His potential is vast. Given time, he could command his own team—he has the instincts for it.”

  Malachar’s face tightened with concern, his tone shifting into something more severe. “But what if this is all a trap? No Shadow Celestial would ever willingly save an Arcanist. Arcaris made sure of that. Thorian saving Taron... it doesn’t make sense. He could have left him to die, and yet he didn’t. Why?”

  The room grew still again, the quiet punctuated only by the sound of Malachar’s steady breath as he waited for Maelor’s answer.

  Maelor’s expression remained calm, but his eyes darkened with thought. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Why? If it is a trap, then it’s a well-placed one. But there’s something else at play here, Malachar. Something we don’t yet see. Thorian’s motivations are not so simple.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “We can’t afford to turn away every possibility simply because it defies expectation. What’s coming will demand every strength we can gather.”

  Malachar considered this, his eyes narrowing. “You believe he could be an asset, then.”

  “I believe he’s a risk worth taking,” Maelor corrected, his voice firm. “Thorian’s presence here, like Taron’s instincts, might be the piece we need—if we’re careful.”

  Malachar exhaled, clearly unsettled by the situation but not dismissing it. He straightened, standing tall once more. “Careful doesn’t begin to cover it, Maelor. This reeks of a trap, and we both know the Shadow Celestials still bear the grudge Arcaris left them with.”

  Maelor met Malachar’s gaze steadily. “We’ll handle it. But you must see the larger game, Malachar. We cannot dismiss Thorian, and we cannot dismiss Taron’s insight. This may be the very reason they crossed paths.”

  Malachar’s expression darkened, his gaze unwavering as he processed Maelor’s words. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter, but it carried the weight of hard truth. “The Council won’t accept this easily, Maelor. You know them—stubborn, set in their ways. Bringing a Shadow Celestial into Aether is going to do more than ruffle feathers. The people won’t understand, and chaos will follow. It could incite conflicts between the regions.” He paused, the lines on his face deepening with worry. “The Aquorians will be the first to revolt. Their distrust runs deeper than the others’. They’ll see this as a betrayal.”

  Maelor stood unflinching, hands still clasped behind his back, the gears of his mind turning with calculated precision. “Which is why we need to handle this delicately. We don’t just bring Thorian into the fold—we integrate him slowly, carefully. We show that this is not a threat but a strategic decision. And meanwhile,” his tone dropped, becoming more measured, “we must keep an eye on the mercenaries of Varyk. They’re becoming more aggressive, more organized. They sense the coming shift, and they’re preparing for it.”

  Malachar’s eyes flickered with recognition of the danger. “Varyk… His mercenaries are nothing more than hired blades, but they’ve been gathering strength. If they ally themselves with any one faction, we could be dealing with more than just internal strife. It would be civil war.”

  Maelor gave a subtle nod, his gaze focused but calm. “Exactly. Which is why Thorian is more valuable than they realize. We need someone with the capability to counter the forces rising around us, and the Shadow Celestials are part of that. They’ve always been on the edge of our world, pretending they don’t exist won’t protect us forever. Thorian is the first sign that things are in motion, whether we want them to be or not.”

  Malachar’s lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in his frame evident. He began pacing, his usually measured steps quicker, more agitated. This subject, Maelor knew, was delicate for him. The Shadow Celestials, the history tied to them, the weight of their exile—it lingered heavily in the High Arcanist’s heart. His connection to the events of the past made this moment fraught with old wounds, old doubts.

  “Pretending they don’t exist…” Malachar echoed, his voice tinged with a bitterness that he rarely let slip. “We exiled them for a reason, Maelor. We didn’t just push them out to protect Aether, but to ensure they could never threaten it again. And now you’re asking me to bring one of them back into our midst as if time has healed those wounds.”

  Maelor let the silence stretch for a moment, knowing that Malachar wasn’t looking for an immediate response but needed to work through his own thoughts. His pacing quickened, his hands moving in subtle, agitated gestures as he muttered to himself.

  “We bring him in, and the Council balks. The Aquorians revolt. What next? Do the Pyronians follow suit? Do we see border skirmishes, rebellion brewing in the streets?”

  He stopped mid-pace, turning sharply to face Maelor, his eyes narrowed. “You’re inviting disaster, and I’m the one who will have to answer for it.”

  Maelor finally stepped forward, his calm presence like an anchor against the storm brewing inside Malachar. “Aether cannot live in a bubble forever, Malachar. Our refusal to confront the reality of the world beyond our borders has weakened us. The Shadow Celestials exist. They’ve always existed, waiting, watching. And now, with Thorian here, we’re given a chance to anticipate their next move.”

  Malachar frowned deeply, the gravity of Maelor’s words hitting hard. He knew the truth of them, even if his heart recoiled at the implications. “And what if this is their next move? What if bringing Thorian here plays right into their hands? You said it yourself—Varyk’s mercenaries are more organized, and who’s to say the Shadow Celestials aren’t behind it? What if this is all part of a greater plot, and we’re handing them the key to our city?”

  Maelor’s expression remained steadfast, his voice low and deliberate. “We’ll be ready. That’s why we can’t ignore Thorian. He’s the first sign, yes. But he’s also the first opportunity. We need to understand what’s happening, and he’s our best chance.”

  Malachar’s pacing resumed, though now it was slower, more thoughtful. His hand moved across his chin as if in deep contemplation, his mind clearly racing with possibilities. This was a conversation they both knew was long overdue, and the weight of the decision hung between them like a sword.

  “I don’t like this,” Malachar muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t like this at all.”

  Maelor didn’t push. He simply stood, watching Malachar as he wrestled with the implications. The High Arcanist was always a man of deep thought, but this—this touched on something personal, something that threatened the foundation of everything he had built and protected.

  “The Council will resist,” Malachar finally said, stopping his pacing and turning to face Maelor fully. “We both know that. And even if we can convince them, the people will be confused. They’ve lived in peace for too long to understand the threat that’s coming. We risk losing them.”

  Maelor nodded, acknowledging the difficulty ahead. “We won’t lose them. But we have to act carefully. The people look to the Council for guidance. If we falter, they’ll fall. That’s why this has to be done with precision. Slowly, with calculated moves. We show them the value, the necessity, piece by piece.”

  “And the Aquorians?” Malachar asked, his voice tight. “They’ve never trusted the Council fully. You think they’ll sit quietly when they hear about this?”

  “No,” Maelor replied. “They won’t. But that’s why we’ll need more than words. We’ll need actions. Proof. Thorian’s presence may stir conflict, but his abilities will prove useful in the battles to come. And when we can show them that, we’ll have a chance.”

  Malachar let out a long, slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he processed everything. “You’re placing a lot of faith in one man, Maelor.”

  “I’m placing faith in what’s coming,” Maelor corrected softly. “And in our ability to adapt before it’s too late.”

  Malachar’s face darkened further, his expression settling into something grimmer. “Thorian will need to be watched closely. If the Shadow Celestials and Varyk’s mercenaries are involved, we need to stay ahead of them. We can’t afford to let them slip through our grasp.”

  Maelor gave a slow nod. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. Thorian will join my team, where I can keep him under close observation. Every step, every move—he won’t go unnoticed.” He paused for a moment, his gaze sharpening. “And I’ll be watching Taron as well.”

  At this, Malachar raised an eyebrow, though he said nothing. Maelor continued, voice soft but firm. “Taron’s mind is sharp, no doubt about that. But his soul... it’s too good for this world. Too trusting. And that’s dangerous. He sees things others don’t, but his compassion might be his undoing. If Thorian’s playing both sides, it’ll be Taron’s blind spot.”

  Malachar exhaled slowly, his eyes flickering with concern. “You think they’ll grow close, then? That they’ll form a bond?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” Maelor said, his voice contemplative. “But there’s something in the way they move around each other, something... complementary. Thorian’s cold calculation and Taron’s unyielding spirit. They balance each other in a way that could lead to trust... or manipulation. If Thorian does have plans, it could be Taron who unwittingly helps him carry them out—or the one who stops him.”

  Malachar’s eyes grew distant, his thoughts pulled back to another time, another pair of young men. “History... it has a cruel way of repeating itself.” His voice was softer now, filled with an edge of melancholy. “Thorian and Taron… it feels like a mirror. A reflection of what once was.”

  Maelor’s expression didn’t change, but his voice grew gentler. “You’re thinking of you and Arcaris.”

  Malachar didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting toward the window, as if looking beyond the present. “Seventy-three years,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s been seventy-three years since the exile. Seventy-three years since that war shattered everything. Good men, Arcanists, Celestials… they died in that catastrophic war.”

  Maelor, ever measured, allowed the silence to breathe before speaking. “Shadow Celestials died too, Malachar. Not all of them were your enemies.”

  Malachar’s jaw tightened, but he nodded slightly. “Yes, they did. Too many… too many on both sides.”

  He didn’t look at Maelor, his eyes still lost in the distant view from the window, but the weight of his words lingered heavily in the room. The memories of those long-ago battles, of broken friendships and fractured trust, seemed to hang between them like a veil of history they could never quite escape.

  For a moment, neither spoke, the past pressing down on them, more tangible than ever.

  Malachar finally snapped back to reality, turning toward Maelor with a resigned sigh.

  “Very well. We’ll present this to the Council. But be prepared for a fight, Maelor. And not just with the Council… with all of Aether.”

  Maelor gave a slight nod, his face calm but determined. “I always am.”