In a ruined hall, its ceiling, long since collapsed, allowed the unrestrained brilliance of the sun to pour in, drenching the vast chamber in golden light. The ancient stones seemed to glow, their weathered cracks revealing the slow but unstoppable hand of time.

The walls, once carved with proud sigils and banners, now bore only scars: fissures that ran like veins of age and ruin. The floor of the hall was broken and uneven, the patterned stone long fractured; weeds pushed through the gaps, a quiet testament to nature reclaiming what was once hers.

Several towering pillars, once proud and seamless, now stood crippled, some cleaved in half, others leaning under the weight of old wounds, yet despite the decay, the hall endured. It stood like a relic of defiance, a monument refusing to bow to centuries of ruin.

Right now, several figures sat upon massive stone thrones that lined the chamber, the seats arranged so they faced each other across the rectangular breadth of the hall. At the far end, the high dais loomed with its broken throne, a colossal seat of power fractured by time and conflict. Nearly thirty steps led up toward it, each stair broad and steep, as though carved to make any who ascended feel the weight of their ambition. Yet that throne, mighty though it remained, stood vacant. To sit upon it would be to proclaim dominion over the entire realm, to stake a claim as the sole lord above all others. No one had dared such a gesture. Not even Apollyon, in the secrecy of his rare and quiet visits, had ever risked laying claim by setting himself upon that shattered seat. It was a throne of ghosts, heavy with curses and memory.

Every lord and lady in attendance wore their warlike raiment, armour forged of steel and other rare metals, each plate and cloak gleaming beneath the sun's cascade. The choice of attire was itself a declaration: this was not a time of peace, nor parley born of calm intent, this was a council convened under the shadow of war.

On the left side of the hall sat Apollyon, emperor of Galvia, grim and imposing, occupying the first throne with the weight of silent authority.

Beside him, in the second throne, sat Geriant, emperor of Cyrenia, his stern visage shadowed by a crown of silver, the steel of his armour beautified with the bright emerald of his banners. At the third throne sat Samson, emperor of the Sacred Flame, his presence radiant, his armour edged in gold as though fire itself had kissed its surface. Behind these sovereigns stood dukes, counts, and sworn lords, their faces hard, their eyes fixed with solemn resolve, each a blade of the empires they represented.

On the right side of the hall, Artemis, queen of Silvermoon, claimed the first throne. Her silvered mail gleamed in the sun's embrace. Beside her sat Vladimir, archduke of Nubis, draped in sable armour, his dark mantle pooling at his feet like the spread of shadow itself. In the third throne sat Princess Morgana, heir to the Silvermoon throne, her youthful beauty sharpened by the cold steel of command, her gaze bright with a flame that spoke of ambition. Behind them, their vassals lingered, a host of nobles clad in the finery of war, their banners muted but their swords never far from reach.

"Is she supposed to sit there?" Apollyon tilted his head lazily, his gaze sharp as a blade, staring inquisitively at Morgana. His voice was calm, yet it carried an undercurrent of mockery that rippled through the chamber like a challenge.

"She has earned it." Artemis replied, her lips curving into a beautiful, deliberate smile. It was not a smile of warmth, but of defiance, an affirmation that needed no further explanation.

A low scoff escaped Apollyon, his expression unmoved, though the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed disdain. "She is no independent ruler," he drawled. "She barely triumphed over a single legion I sent." The words dripped with condescension, his tone like the edge of a knife deliberately pressed to test a wound.

Artemis's expression hardened, her frown darkening as though a storm had shadowed her face. "I have not forgotten what you did at Nightfire," she said, her voice soft yet sharpened to steel, "nor the loss of almost half my land." Her eyes narrowed, luminous and deadly, as though a thousand invisible blades shimmered just behind her gaze, poised to strike.

Apollyon raised one brow, his voice steady, even careless. "I merely cleansed the earth of weak-bodied fools who would have corrupted the world with their foul lies." He spoke as if the annihilation of countless souls were no heavier than swatting flies.

"You slaughtered an entire nation," Morgana's voice rang out, hot with indignation, "because you did not believe in the idea of mages standing at the top!" Her words echoed, sharp and cutting, resonating with the weight of youth unafraid to strike at tyranny.

Apollyon turned his gaze toward her, and for a heartbeat his eyes gleamed like burning coals. His voice softened, but the edge within it struck harder than any roar. "And you, and your mother, believe women to be above men. You think yourselves superior in every way. Yet look around." His arm shifted slightly, his hand gesturing toward the line of thrones. "You two are the only women seated upon these thrones. And had it not been for your shamelessness, yes, you, young woman, you would never have sat on that seat."

The rebuke was quiet, yet sharp as glass. It carried a venom that pierced the chamber, stirring unrest among the lords and ladies. A murmur rippled through the hall, steel ringing faintly as hands brushed weapons, and the air grew heavy with tension.

Artemis's power surged before she even rose. The Battle Force around her erupted, fierce and undeniable, and spectral blades shimmered into existence around her form like an arsenal of vengeance. The brilliance of the sun spilling through the ruined ceiling dimmed, a pallor spreading as though the heavens themselves answered her wrath. Slowly, inexorably, the golden light was devoured by silver, overshadowed by the rising face of an ethereal moon.

"Enough!" Geriant's voice thundered, shattering the gathering storm before steel could taste blood. His command reverberated through the hall, carrying the authority of one accustomed to being obeyed.

He was striking to behold, the most handsome man in the chamber, with hair black as the starless void, cascading down in a silken river that reached his abdomen. His skin was pale as sculpted marble, and his face seemed carved by divine hands, noble yet unyielding. His presence radiated power without arrogance, drawing every eye like gravity itself.

"Everyone has gathered," Geriant continued, his gaze sweeping across the hall, "but the man who called for us is not here? What is this supposed to mean?"

"Apologies…" A voice rose from the entrance, carrying an effortless weight that turned every head toward it. "I had to ensure some things were prepared beforehand."

From the shadow of the broken archway, a figure stepped forth. A man, white-haired, his stride light but measured. At his side padded a great snow-white wolf, its massive frame tense, its hackles raised, growls rumbling like distant thunder as it crouched at the threshold, guarding the path its master walked.

One of the other wolf's crimson eyes remained shut, the scar carved across his eyelid, a claw-mark,.still vivid even after time's passing, an old wound that had failed to diminish his presence. The other eye, open and merciless, gleamed with a crimson pupil so sharp it seemed to pierce flesh and soul alike. It fixed on the hall with predatory intensity, as if it could lay bare every secret, every weakness, every hidden thought of those who dared to meet it.

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