Crowds always gathered before the Council’s great doors whenever meetings ended. Children strained for a glimpse, elders bowed, merchants craned their necks for the chance of a wave or a smile. No one dared protest here. No banners, no chants, no voices raised. Reverence held the street in silence.

  The Council were heroes, idols, gods draped in flesh. To the people, they were the pillars of the All-Realm itself.

  The four entered a private dining room near the Council’s seat. The walls were close, the table small.

  Leroy ordered coffee, strong and black. Bjorn demanded a slab of smoked meat, seafood platters, and, of course, alcohol enough to drown a village. Amaterasu chose a spiced broth that steamed like her aura, while Starmist asked for sugared sweets, crystalline and light.

  As the dishes arrived, Bjorn leaned back with a smirk. “Once again, mortals prop up the gods’ image.”

  “Careful, professor,” Amaterasu retorted, fire glinting in her eyes. “As Cygnus reminded us, this is not about factions. This is about all of us.”

  “Whatever you say,” Bjorn muttered, already carving into his meal. He cared little for debates when the food was hot before him.

  But beneath the surface—the warmth of the fire, the laughter, the clatter of plates—Leroy felt the weight of their masks. Outside, the people saw gods. Inside, the council whispered of shadows, secrets, and fractures that could break the world again.

  “Bjorn, do you care nothing for your health?” Starmist asked, while she saw the mountain of food set before him.

  “In the end, we all die,” Bjorn replied cheerfully, tearing into smoked meat with his hands, grease glistening on his beard. “So I’ll savor every beautiful moment this pity realm offers.” He washed it down with a gulp of burning liquor.

  Leroy smirked faintly over the rim of his coffee. “At this rate, we should start searching for your replacement.”

  “If I don’t eat, I can’t think,” Bjorn retorted, his words muffled by the next mouthful.

  “But we still need you here, Bjorn,” Starmist said softly. She spooned a sugar-crystal sweet into her mouth, her movements graceful even in such a mundane act. Her presence seemed untouched by the weight of the room.

  “I don’t plan to sit in this chamber forever,” Bjorn quipped suddenly. “I intend to create a factory, you know.”

  The table fell silent. The others stared at him, not with amusement, but with faint disbelief. The joke thudded in the air like a blade missing its mark. Embarrassed, Bjorn shifted in his seat and changed the subject.

  “Well then,” he said loudly, drowning his unease in another bite of meat. “Tell me, after all these years in the Council, have you actually enjoyed life?”

  The question hung there, heavy, strange, and too honest.

  Amaterasu broke it first. “Not particularly,” she admitted with a shrug, dabbing her lips with a cloth. “But the taste of power… that’s a flavor unlike any other.”

  “For me,” Starmist said, her voice quiet but resolute, “it’s been worth it. More burdens, yes. But also more reach. More good I can do. More than when I was only a Vanguard.”

  Leroy leaned back, fingers tracing the handle of his cup. “I only dislike about finance things,” he said flatly. “Since when should a soldier concern himself with ledgers and accounts?”

  The words lingered over the table, blending with the clink of cutlery and the muted murmur of commonfolk outside. For a moment, they were not gods nor conquerors, but weary souls grappling with the absurdity of their roles—powerful beyond measure, yet chained to duty, expectation, and the strange fragility of life itself.

  “But sometimes bored, doesn’t it?” Amaterasu muttered, swirling the last of her broth. “All we do now is sit while the Vanguards fight. We rot in chairs.”

  “Our position forbids us from battle,” Leroy replied calmly. “Security demands it. We are forbidden to die.”

  Starmist set down her spoon, her tone softer but edged with truth. “We are the seven pillars that hold the All-Realm. I don’t believe everyone reveres us. Fear, maybe—but there are those who would gladly see us fall.”

  “What matters,” Leroy countered, “is that we support each other. That is what has kept the Council alive until now.”

  Amaterasu gave a sharp laugh. “Support? It’s just the four of us here, isn’t it?”

  Leroy raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

  She leaned forward, fire smoldering in her eyes. “I don’t trust Cygnus. Not completely. Elysius is still a boy—his time will come, but not yet. And Lucretius…” she shook her head, “…I’m not even certain what he is.”

  Leroy straightened in his chair, tone firm. “Cygnus is our guide. Without him, this Council would not have stood for years. His centuries of experience has carried us through.”

  Amaterasu’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me then, how long should a man live? What’s the natural limit?”

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  “One hundred and fifty years, perhaps,” Starmist answered, and the others nodded in agreement.

  “Yet the sorcerer has lived for centuries,” Amaterasu snapped. “Why would anyone refuse death unless there was a purpose unfinished?”

  “The mantle of Sorcerer Supreme isn’t passed easily,” Leroy argued, his voice level. “Perhaps no one else has proven worthy.”

  “Or perhaps his purpose is to guide us,” Starmist said gently, smiling toward Amaterasu, who only grew more tense.

  “Impossible. You expect me to believe that for centuries no worthy successor has rise?” Amaterasu’s voice flared hotter. Her finger jabbed toward Leroy, accusation trembling in the air.

  Bjorn broke the tension with a thunderous belch, tossing his bone aside and wiping his beard. “Think of it this way, Cygnus still a man, not some ancient race built for long life.” He picked at his teeth with a sliver of wood, then tucked a cigar between his lips.

  “At last,” Amaterasu smirked, sparks dancing at her fingertips, “someone with sense.” She snapped her fingers, and flame leapt to life, igniting Bjorn’s cigar before he could reach for his lighter.

  The smoke curled upward, acrid and sweet, while the tension around the table lingered. Suspicion, loyalty, and the question no one wanted to answer—what was Cygnus truly, and how long could one man bear the weight of eternity?

  “I’ve no wish to argue this further,” Leroy said at last, his voice steady but final. “What matters is that we return. The Council still waits.”

  With that, the debate in the private room ended. They pushed aside plates and empty cups, wiping hands and mouths, the remnants of their small reprieve swept away.

  Amaterasu lingered a moment, her eyes narrowing into something softer. “Leroy… your leadership sharpens by the day.”

  He allowed himself a thin smile. “I’ve been trying to listen more. To weigh every voice before choosing the right course.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time you considered marriage,” Amaterasu said slyly as they rose from the table. “If you can manage the Council, surely one woman would be no challenge.”

  Bjorn roared with laughter, slapping his knee. “Ha! Now there’s a trial even he might fail.”

  Leroy only chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “That matter… is more complicated than it looks.” He deflected with practiced ease, steering the conversation away before it could linger.

  Together, the four left the private chamber, stepping back into the streets of District One. The reverence of the crowd awaited them, the weight of eyes and whispers, as always. And so they walked—leaders, gods, burdens in flesh—returning to the citadel to resume the Council’s endless deliberations.

  Elysius returned to the courtroom ahead of the others, his hands folded with a shaky stack of documents. Several sheets fell off, scattering across the marble floor as his gaze froze on the figure in the room.

  Lucretius was still there.

  The Fallen Knight had not moved since the recess began. He sat as though carved from the stone itself, immovable, his eyes fixed upon the boy.

  The air thickened. Elysius placed the stack on the desk with fumbling hands, then lowered himself into his seat, trying not to notice the weight of that unblinking gaze.

  He busied himself with counting the pages, lips pressed tight, sweat beading at his temple. But the silence stretched too long, and the stare too sharp.

  Finally, Lucretius spoke, his voice quiet but cutting. “Are you still afraid of me, boy?”

  Elysius flinched, nearly dropping the papers. “N-no… Starmist—no, I mean Leroy—asked me to sort these by name. Alphabetical.” His words tumbled clumsy and nervous, his eyes darting up to meet Lucretius’ and then away again.

  The knight exhaled slowly, the sound like steel cooling. “Here is a lesson: in battle, if your enemy sees your fear, you have already lost the first step.”

  Elysius swallowed hard. “Thank you, General. I’ll… I’ll remember that.”

  The silence returned, heavier still. Lucretius’ gaze did not waver. Elysius forced himself to stand straighter, to breathe slower, placing the papers down one by one with deliberate calm. At last, he blurted out:

  “Do you have any advice… on how to be more… intimidating?”

  Lucretius’ eyes narrowed, sharpening like drawn blades. The boy’s face paled. He stood quickly, bowing awkwardly. “I—I didn’t mean it that way. I meant… more mature. Yes, that’s what I meant.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly, trapped in his own nerves.

  “Speak less,” Lucretius said at last. “Do only what is necessary.”

  Elysius blinked. Then, for the first time, he drew in a steady breath, standing straighter. “If I imitated you… do you think I could become like you?”

  The fallen knight’s gaze drifted, finally breaking from him. He turned his head toward the window, the pale light etching his scarred features.

  “We are not the same.”

  The words landed like a blade between them. Elysius was left with silence—no longer cowering, but no closer to understanding the depth of the man before him.

  From the corridor came the muffled sound of voices, followed by the measured rhythm of many footsteps. The door opened, and Leroy entered with the others close behind.

  “Hey, boy—can’t you even carry papers properly?” Bjorn barked as he strode in last, Starmist at his side. Both carried stray sheets that had slipped from Elysius’ pile earlier.

  Flustered, Elysius stammered an apology. Starmist offered him a gentle smile. “Just be more careful next time and more responsible.”

  Amaterasu’s voice cut sharp in the chamber. “Stop coddling him, Starmist! He may be the youngest here, but he is no child!”

  “What will happen if the future is led by a generation this soft,” Bjorn added with a booming laugh, smoke curling thick from his cigar.

  “Enough,” Leroy’s voice snapped like steel. His gaze pinned them both before turning back to Elysius. “Summon Cygnus. It’s time we continue the meeting.”

  The boy fumbled for his transmitter—but before he could activate it, a portal shimmered open by his chair.

  “Am I late?” came the calm voice of the Sorcerer Supreme.

  “You’re just in time,” Starmist said.

  “Good,” Cygnus replied, taking his place with ease. “So what remains?”

  The final matter lay before them: the quarterly evaluation of the Regal Vanguards. By law, any member who failed to meet standards for a full year could be replaced. The deliberations could last all night.

  “Lucretius,” Leroy said, his tone heavy with ritual, “name the first.”

  The Fallen Knight sifted through his papers, selecting one without hesitation.

  Bjorn groaned, sinking deeper into his chair. “Another long, boring night…”

  The chamber quieted as the council fell into silence, each member reviewing their reports, quills scratching softly on parchment. Only Elysius did not participate; still too green, he pulled his chair beside Leroy, peering curiously at the process.

  Across the room, Starmist rose quietly. She moved to Cygnus’ side, slipping something small into his hand—a shard of metal, faintly etched with runes.

  “I need you to analyze this,” she whispered.

  Cygnus studied it briefly, his expression unreadable, before tucking it deep into his robes. “I’ll look into it. But from what I see… I hope my suspicion is wrong.” His voice was low, measured, for her ears alone.

  Starmist’s brow furrowed. “Is it something dangerous?”

  “You’ll know at the Colosseum,” Cygnus said, dismissive yet firm. “For now, let’s finish this session and rest.”

  Starmist nodded and returned to her seat, the shard’s weight now doubled in her mind.

  The chamber returned to its rhythm—the scratch of quills, the shuffle of papers, and the heavy silence of judgment. Yet beneath that quiet, many secrets had already begun to take root.