The winds of the north had changed.

Once-broken paths were now smooth roads lined with sturdy stone. Traders from distant kingdoms crossed through Sikone daily, their carts heavy with goods, their eyes filled with wonder.

Children laughed in the marketplace, chasing each other between merchant stalls that brimmed with exotic spices, enchanted trinkets, and forged weapons bearing the unmistakable signature of James Oliak.

The village pulsed with life. And it all flowed around one name.

Jared.

From a humble chieftain to a respected leader of the northern trade network, Jared had built Sikone into a thriving hub of commerce, strength, and influence.

Gold flowed through its coffers like wine at a noble's banquet. The armory was full, the people were fed, the guards well-trained, and the gods—silent.

For once, there was peace.

And Jared was exhausted.

He sat on the high stone balcony of his manor, legs propped on the railing, sipping a glass of chilled fruit wine. The sun shimmered off his dark coat, now tailored with subtle gold threading—not flashy, but unmistakably expensive. The wind tousled his hair, and he let it. For once, he didn't feel the need to control everything.

Lucy stood at the base of the stairs, speaking quietly with merchants and passing instructions to soldiers. Kiara drilled recruits in the courtyard, her voice sharp as ever. James could be heard hammering away at the forge, cursing the imperfections only he could see.

And Jared?

He was watching it all fade from his hands like a dream that had run its course.

"It's done," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "It's finally done."

A soft knock tapped at the doorframe behind him.

Ria stood there, barefoot, her long cloak dragging slightly as if she hadn't fully committed to dressing for the day.

"You look ancient," she said, arms crossed but eyes amused.

Jared didn't respond. He tilted his glass.

"Want some?"

Ria walked over, plopped herself beside him, and instead of taking the drink, leaned her head gently against his shoulder.

"Dad would've loved this," she said softly. "He used to say the north was cursed… but you broke it."

Jared's jaw tightened. "He's not here to see it."

"But he would've been proud," she insisted. "You didn't just keep Sikone alive—you gave it a future."

He didn't reply. He stared ahead, watching the sunlight dance on the village walls. The silence stretched between them like an unspoken truth.

"You never stop, you know?" Ria murmured. "Always planning, always calculating… But maybe it's okay to stop now. Just for a day."

"I was planning to," he admitted.

She blinked. "Wait… seriously?"

"I'm thinking of retiring. Not disappearing—just stepping back. Let Kiara and Lucy take more control. Maybe even let the council govern the daily mess."

"That sounds… suspiciously reasonable."

"Isn't it normal that I rest for a while?"

There was no humor in his voice.

She shifted slightly and took his hand. He didn't pull away, but he didn't grip it back either. She understood. Jared was never one for sentiment, but his silence spoke volumes.

"We should visit him," she said suddenly.

He glanced at her.

Later that day, beneath the shade of a quiet hill overlooking the village, Jared stood beside his sister, both cloaked in long coats that flapped gently in the wind. Before them lay a simple stone marked with their father's name, nestled between wildflowers and untamed grass.

Jared didn't kneel. He stood straight, eyes closed, arms behind his back. Ria whispered something, her voice carried away by the breeze, and then fell silent beside him.

Together, they stood in wordless prayer.

Long moments passed.

Then—

A faint rustle from behind.

Jared's eyes opened.

"Master," came Paimon's voice, subdued and oddly respectful for once. She approached slowly, not hovering, not joking—just walking.

"What is it?" Jared asked, his voice low.

"There's someone in the village who asked to meet you," she said. "They said it's… important."

"Who?"

"I don't know. But they wouldn't speak to anyone else. Only you."

Jared took a final glance at the gravestone, then turned and began walking back toward the path.

He didn't need to speak.

Ria stayed behind a moment longer, placing a hand on the stone.

….

The return to the village was quiet.

Paimon drifted just a few steps behind Jared as he walked the now-familiar path, Ria having parted ways halfway down the slope to prepare dinner—her form slowly swallowed by the golden-orange haze of the setting sun. Jared's boots thudded softly on the cobblestone road, but his thoughts moved faster than his steps.

Someone had come asking for him.

And Paimon's tone… it wasn't the usual lighthearted mischief. There had been something else—restraint, maybe even reverence. That alone narrowed the possibilities.

When he reached the manor, Lucy was already waiting at the gate, her posture stiff, brows slightly furrowed. She opened the door for him without a word, but her eyes lingered on Paimon for a second too long.

"He's waiting in the guest hall," she said as Jared stepped through. "Didn't give a name. Just said he was from 'Laguge.'"

Jared's steps stopped.

"Laguge?" he repeated.

Lucy nodded.

A pause stretched between them.

Jared had heard that name before—but only in whispers. Laguge was not a place you found on maps. It didn't trade, didn't recruit, didn't host festivals or open its gates to wandering merchants. Most believed it to be little more than myth—an old northern name lost to time. But those who knew the truth, even a sliver of it, spoke of one fact with certainty:

Laguge was a seat of power.

Not a city, not a capital—but something older. Something deeper.

Its leader was never seen, only mentioned. A silent force. A presence among the Northern Council—the hidden wheel in a machine of crumbling kingdoms and tenuous alliances.

No one visited Laguge.

And no one from Laguge visited.

Jared's jaw set, and he moved forward without another word.

When he stepped into the guest hall, he found the messenger standing near the window, his back turned, arms clasped behind him. He wore a thick, layered cloak, embroidered not with wealth, but with history—ancient threadwork of mountains, trees, and a symbol Jared recognized from old war documents: a broken star inside a ring.

The seal of the council.

The man turned. He was older, though not frail, with deep lines on his face and eyes like cold silver.

"Lord Jared," the man said, bowing slightly. "It's an honor."

Jared didn't bow. He didn't offer wine or a seat. He simply waited.

The man smiled faintly. "Straight to it, then. I bring you an invitation."

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a thick envelope, sealed with black wax and the same ringed star insignia.

Jared took it. The paper was rough, aged—not like the silk parchment nobles liked to use. This was made for durability, not flair.

He broke the seal and unfolded the contents.

There was no fluff.

Just ten lines, hand-written in formal ink:

To Jared of Sikone, Dragon Master and guardian of the southern route,

Your presence is hereby requested at the next Assembly of the Northern Council. Date: To be announced. Location: Rotating as per tradition—this season, hosted in Laguge.

This invitation marks the intent of the council to consider your village, Sikone, for representation among the Twelve Seats.

Prepare accordingly.

—Elder Thorne, on behalf of the Northern Council

Jared's eyes narrowed on the key phrase: representation among the Twelve Seats.

So they weren't just inviting him to attend—they were preparing to make him one of them.

A member of the ruling body of the North.

For generations, the North had rejected kings. After the last great war, when the eastern empire tried to force its rule on the scattered tribes of the north, the remnants of once-proud nations came together not under a crown—but under a council. Twelve seats. Twelve voices. Each representing a major stronghold or lineage.

Some were warrior clans.

Others, hidden societies.

A few—like Laguge—were something older, harder to define.

Together, they governed the North through uneasy compromise, rotating their meeting place every few seasons. There was no throne room. No coronations. Just oaths, alliances, and war-forged respect.

To be offered a seat was rare.

To be considered at all was political thunder.

"You've built something impressive," the messenger said softly, watching Jared's expression. "Trade roads. Peace. Independence. The council doesn't offer invitations lightly. This is… recognition."

"It's leverage," Jared muttered, folding the letter.

"Perhaps. But it is also power. And with that power… comes responsibility." The man's voice lowered. "The north is shifting. Ravana rises, but cracks beneath. Bandit clans grow more organized. And the capital, while distant, begins to look northward again."

Jared raised a brow. "Let me guess. You're here to warn me not to disappoint them?"

The man smiled faintly. "No. I'm here to tell you that they're watching. And more importantly, that they're listening."

A heavy pause.

Then Jared asked, "When do I leave?"

"The exact date will come by courier. Likely in a fortnight. The journey to Laguge is not simple. You'll be guided."

"And the meeting?"

"Private. No guards. No followers. Only those invited. You'll be expected to speak for your people—and defend why you deserve the twelfth seat."

Jared didn't flinch. "I've been doing that for years."

The man gave a shallow bow once more.

"Then the council looks forward to hearing it in person."

With that, the messenger turned and strode out, leaving Jared alone with the letter still warm in his hand.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.