Location: True Kürdiala, Council Chamber Evening | Year 7002 A.A.
The Council Chamber of Kürdiala had always seemed less a hall built by hands and more a thing the world itself had grown into being. Its dome of violet crystal arched high above like the hollow of a mountain turned inside-out, every curve alive with veins of living light. These runes did not merely adorn the walls—they breathed, their faint glimmer shifting with the temperaments gathered inside. When anger rippled through the chamber, the runes sharpened in hue, glowing like fresh-cut amethyst. When doubt crept in, their gleam dimmed to shadow. In this place, the walls themselves were mirrors, not of face, but of soul.
Beneath the dome's watchful light stood the round table of pure Mana Crystal. To any mortal eye it appeared as glass, clear and smooth, but no man could measure the depth of it. Looking into it was like staring into still water beneath which stars themselves might drown. Each of the Lords seated about it seemed both reflected and refracted in its sheen—echoes of their faces, but stranger, their expressions rippling faintly as though some hidden truth was being laid bare.
This was no ordinary gathering place. The chamber itself was an arbiter, stripping masks from those who dared speak within it.
Around the circle sat the Lords of Narn, their presences heavy not merely for what they were, but for what they carried—histories carved by loss, legacies unclaimed, and futures bristling with threat.
Darius sat first in the circle, his massive arms folded against his chest. His golden-milk fur, usually radiant as if kissed by dawn, was dulled in the chamber's violet torchlight. His eyes burned not with rage, but with the weary patience of a soldier too long held from the battlefield.
Beside him, Kon sat with stillness so sharp it was unnerving. His claws tapped upon the table, a rhythm as steady as a clock, his single eye narrowing as if to pierce through the silence. Kon had always seemed half predator, half judge—the kind of gaze that did not merely look at a man, but through him, measuring every weakness, every hesitation. Tonight his silence was heavier than words.
Trevor leaned back in his chair, though there was little ease in him. His tail flicked in restless arcs, his staff absent yet felt in the tension of his shoulders. The monkey had ever been one to cloak unease in bravado, yet here—even in the shadowed glow of the chamber—his eyes betrayed a sharpness, a readiness, like lightning coiled but unspent.
Across the table, Jeth slouched beneath his ragged hat, the brim shadowing his mischievous grin. Rat whiskers twitched as though scenting a storm, though the smirk upon his lips suggested he alone found amusement in the tension. Yet even here, his posture was deceptive. Behind the raggedness was a creature with ears always turned to the ground, one who heard what others missed, who laughed when others clenched their jaws.
Kopa sat upright, his antlers stretching high and catching the violet glow of the chamber. The light danced strangely upon them, like lightning caught in bone. His ears twitched at every small sound—whether it was Kon's claws, Trevor's tail, or Johan's breath. His was the bearing of one born to listen, though tonight that gift brought little peace.
And at the far end of the circle, Johan Fare sat stiff, his posture sharp as a drawn blade. His eyes—fierce, forever suspicious—swept the chamber with restless vigilance. His tail flicked in short bursts, restrained yet restless, the mark of a warrior who despised waiting almost as much as defeat. The faintest tightening of his jaw revealed his disdain for silence, his hunger for decision, his heart already halfway to a battlefield that did not yet exist.
Together, they formed a circle of power, of expectation, of dissonant wills bound only by necessity. Yet though their bodies were still, the atmosphere in the chamber was anything but. The air itself seemed to quiver, humming faintly like a bowstring drawn but not released.
It was not merely the fall of ArchenLand that pressed upon them, though that would have been cause enough. It was the waiting. The not doing. For warriors, hunters, kings, and thieves alike, patience was no virtue—it was a torment. The runes upon the walls glimmered in sympathy, as if the chamber itself felt the taut strain of their restlessness.
Wrath had no battlefield. Oaths had no outlet.
The reflections upon the crystal table seemed to swim darker with every passing breath, as though the glass itself grew heavy with unspent purpose. Every tick of Kon's claw, every flick of Trevor's tail, every twitch of Jeth's whisker was amplified in the silence until the sound felt almost unbearable.
It was Johan who shattered the silence first, his voice cutting the air like a drawn blade.
"We've been here long enough. Living like refugees while our people suffer."
The words fell heavily into the chamber, their echo circling upward toward the violet dome before cascading back down like shards of stone. His fur, storm-gray under the shifting torchlight, seemed to flare as the crystal table caught the gleam of his anger. The reflection of his eyes—bright, fierce, unwilling—burned across the mirrored surface, painting his visage in a flame not of fire, but of conviction.
"I say it's time we act," Johan pressed on, every syllable sharpened by hunger for war. "Time to reclaim what's ours."
For a breath, none answered. Yet the air itself thickened, as though each Lord's thoughts had weight enough to bend it. The runes in the wall quivered faintly, glowing darker at the edges, as though even the chamber was stirred to unease.
Then Kon moved.
His claws clicked once against the table's crystal edge, a small sound, but keen as flint striking stone.
"And you think King Azubuike's just gonna give us an army?" Kon's voice was calm, but that calm was its own form of accusation. "Send Kürdiala's best to die in a war that ain't his?"
The question hung like smoke, thick and stifling. The other Lords shifted—some in thought, some in impatience, some in quiet shame.
Johan's tail stiffened behind him, a whip of restrained violence. His nostrils flared, and the fire in his eyes only grew hotter.
"So what, we sit here? We wait while the shadow enslaves our kin?"
The last word struck with weight: kin. Not soldiers. Not allies. Family. And in that, Johan's fury was not his alone.
Across the table, Darius stirred. The brown-furred bull leaned forward, his folded arms shifting like the roll of thunderclouds. His mane caught the violet light in threads of dim fire, yet his eyes were steady, grounded, as though he had carried this argument within himself many times already.
"We don't make demands from a host who gave us shelter," Darius said, his voice even, but the restraint in it was plain. The muscles in his shoulders tightened, betraying the strain beneath his composure. "We lost everything. That doesn't give us the right to burn bridges."
The words carried weight, but they also carried caution. Patience, when spoken aloud, often sounds like cowardice.
Johan heard it that way.
"Unreasonable?" Johan snapped, his voice rising. His jaw clenched as he glared at Darius, the reflection of his anger burning hotter across the glass table. "With all respect My King, that's exactly what the Shadow would want—timid Lords afraid to act."
The word hung in the air.
Timid.
It cut deeper than steel.
Kon's chair scraped hard against the polished crystal floor, the sound splitting the air like a blade drawn in haste. Every ear flicked toward it, every breath in the chamber hitched, for the scrape was not merely noise—it was declaration.
The tiger rose, tall and bristling, his broad shoulders rolling with restrained power. His single eye blazed under the violet dome, burning with the fury of one who had suffered too much to bear insult lightly. His claws flexed once at his sides, catching the crystal's glow, sharp as small crescents of death.
"You callin' me a coward, soldier?"
The words did not come as a question. They fell like a gauntlet, iron-clad and cold, thrown upon the table of their fragile unity.
The chamber seemed to tilt with the weight of it. The violet runes along the dome pulsed faster, flashing faintly like storm-clouds lit from within.
Johan did not flinch. The raccoon's stance was rigid, his jaw set like granite, his eyes locked upon Kon's as though daring the tiger to lunge. He did not rise from his seat, nor bow his head. Instead, his tail braced behind him, stiff as a banner before war.
"I'm callin' it like I see it."
No hesitation. No softening.
In an instant, Kon moved.
The tiger's body blurred—a streak of muscle and fury that cracked the air with the force of his speed. One heartbeat he was across the table; the next, his face was inches from Johan's, hot breath washing against the raccoon's muzzle. His fangs glistened in the violet light, bared with lethal promise, the low thunder of a growl rolling deep in his chest.
The crystal table between them quivered under the sudden surge of will. The mirrored surface rippled faintly, as though even mana itself recoiled from their collision.
Johan did not waver. His eyes met Kon's flame with equal steel, though his claws dug faint crescents into the arm of his chair. He would not be the first to break.
Kopa, antlers gleaming, shot upright so suddenly his chair toppled backward with a clatter. His young chest heaved, his ears pinned against his head, eyes wide not with cowardice but with dismay at the sight of unity unraveling. "Stop!"
Trevor winced, his sharp ears folding against the weight of the growl that filled the chamber. He stepped forward, tail lashing, one paw raised between the two as if to hold back a tide too vast for mortal arms.
"Enough!" Trevor barked, his usual fox-like drawl stripped away, replaced by command sharp as steel. "We don't have to tear each other apart before we even see a battlefield!"
His words rang clear, but they were words spoken to fire—and fire rarely listens.
Behind him, Jeth leaned back in his chair, whiskers twitching. His smirk remained, though softened, stripped of mockery. His voice came low, almost weary, but not cruel.
"Sit down, Kaplan. Ain't worth spillin' blood here."
Yet even Jeth's tone could not cool the air.
Kopa's voice cracked, desperate, earnest. "Can't we cool off and reason together? We're not enemies." His hooves tapped nervously against the floor, a small sound, but heavy in meaning—the trembling of one too young to watch the pillars of leadership fracture.
Still, his plea seemed drowned in the growl rumbling from Kon's chest.
The tiger did not strike, though every fiber of his body begged to. His eye burned, not just with rage, but with old wounds, unseen scars that Johan's words had ripped open. His tail lashed behind him, striking the air like a whip. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head away, but the tension in his shoulders did not ease.
"No," he growled, his voice low, trembling with violence yet contained. "I want him to say it again. I want him to mean it. Just because we allow this footman's audience he feels he can mouth off."
Then—
"Enough."
The voice was not loud.
But it stopped the world.
It did not strike their ears like a command, nor echo through the chamber like a thunderclap. Instead, it settled upon them like snow falling upon fire—quenching, stilling, suffocating. It was as if the sound itself were not carried by air but by the marrow of their bones.
The change was instant.
The crystal beneath their feet dimmed, the reflected runes shuddering and faltering like candlelight in a gale. The dome overhead grew pale, its violet glow bleeding into shadow. The very air bent inward, thickening, pressing, until it seemed the walls themselves remembered death and trembled to hold their form.
Breath grew heavy. Not from lack of air, but from the weight that clung to it.
A pressure descended—unseen, intangible, yet more real than any sword's edge. Not physical strength, though there was plenty of that. Not sorcery, though mana pulsed wild around it. It was older. Deeper. A kind of gravity that rewrote instinct. The kind of presence that declared without words: I am inevitable.
The stag's hooves quivered against the floor, trembling not from weakness but recognition. That same fear he had felt once before, long ago—or perhaps not so long—when rescuing Adam at the Valley of Mout Pire. There had been dread in that place, dread of the Shadow that threatened to devour all.
But this… this was different.
This was not terror born of evil. This was weight born of greatness. The kind of awe that buckled the knees, not because of danger, but because of the sheer impossibility of standing upright in its presence. His antlers lowered, almost instinctively, as though bowing without consent. His young chest heaved, lungs fighting air that no longer wished to move freely.
'This… is beyond him,' Kopa thought. 'Beyond even what we feared or hoped.'
Darius moved slower, but no less struck.
The bull's great chest swelled with a sudden intake of breath, then stopped short. Instinctively, his hand rose—not to grasp a weapon, nor to guard his throat, but to still his heart, which hammered as though the body itself could not understand the soul it stood before.
'So our suspicions were right,' he thought, teeth grinding behind closed lips. 'It's not just his aura. It's the soul inside him…'
And with that, Darius's usual bedrock certainty faltered. For strength he could measure, and fury he could resist. But this—this mingling of boy and legend, of wolf and inheritance—could not be measured. It could only be endured.
Trevor's reaction was quicker, sharper.
The monkey's tail stiffened like a rod. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow, unbidden, betraying the calm mask he so often wore. His fingers twitched toward the staff at his side—an instinct, a soldier's reflex to grasp at something known when the unknown bore down.
But even as his fingertips brushed the rod, his spirit recoiled. Some part of him, deeper than logic, screamed that the weapon would do nothing. That no strike, no spell, no cunning feint could matter here.
His eyes darted once toward Adam—though he had not yet fully seen him—and already the thought lodged itself like a splinter: This pressure… it's not Adam alone. This is something beyond him.
And though Trevor had faced beasts, kings, tyrants, and shadows, his hand slid back from the staff.
Jeth, too, felt it.
The rat's whiskers quivered, his ever-present smirk twitching once, faltering for the first time in years. He leaned back in his chair, as though by creating distance he might dilute the presence pressing in around him. But it was useless. The air itself was heavy.
His hat—worn, tilted, a shield of mockery against the world—suddenly felt out of place, like laughter in a funeral hall. With a slow, reluctant hand, he removed it. Not in jest. Not in irony. But in something dangerously close to reverence.
And then—the door creaked.
The simple sound was deafening.
All eyes turned, though every instinct begged them not to.
Adam Kurt stepped inside.
He was blue-furred still. But nothing else was the same.
The crystalline blue of his eyes burned now with a radiance that seared. To meet them was to feel oneself measured, weighed, judged—not cruelly, not with malice, but with inevitability. Within their depths, golden flecks orbited like stars caught in eclipse, each flicker a reminder of ages older than their world.
His pupils, once soft, once merely mortal, had deepened to an ancient blue that seemed to pierce not merely the chamber but the hearts within it.
His body moved with a strange certainty, as though space itself parted before him, unwilling to resist his passing. His paws did not merely strike the floor—they seemed to press upon the very fabric of the air. Around him shimmered a distortion, subtle but undeniable, like heatwaves without fire, as though the rules of reality bent to his nearness.
Adam's presence did not shout.
It pressed.
It pressed into bone, into marrow, into thought. It silenced wrath not with rebuttal but with remembrance—that all lesser voices existed within a greater one.
The runes along the chamber's walls dimmed as he entered, not failing, but bowing. Their light flickered low, not out of fear, but in reverence.
Kon was the first to yield.
The tiger, so recently ablaze with fury, so recently inches from violence, felt his limbs betray him. Without conscious thought, he backed away, each step heavy, each breath ragged. His single eye, once sharpened in challenge, lowered in silence.
Johan's fire, so bold, so unyielding, guttered within him. The word—coward—died upon his tongue, smothered not by shame, but by the sheer futility of speaking it before this presence. His jaw tightened, his ears twitched, but his voice was gone.
Kopa's hooves, trembling still, rooted to the floor. He dared not move, dared not even swallow. His chest thudded with a rhythm both fearful and awestruck.
Darius dropped his gaze, green eyes no longer willing to challenge. His fists clenched, not to fight, but to anchor himself, to keep from buckling.
And Jeth—ever the irreverent, the mocking, the sly—lowered his hat, not in jest, but in quiet acknowledgment that something far greater than wit had entered the room.
Adam did not speak again.
He did not need to.
For the world itself seemed to whisper in his stead.
The silence stretched—long, taut, unbearable.
Then the door stirred again.
Toran entered behind Adam, his black-and-white fur flowing like twilight incarnate. Where Adam's presence had pressed like an unseen storm, Toran's carried a gentler weight, a ripple of calm that did not dispel the dread but softened its edges, like the hush that follows thunder.
"Pardon our tardiness," Toran said, his voice steady, even measured. "Had to let the Eye adjust."
He moved with quiet assurance, stepping behind Adam and standing as though he had always been meant to. He did not need to explain what had been done—what Adam had become. The chamber already knew. Their hearts already bore witness.
Adam himself said nothing.
He lowered himself to the seat at the crystalline table with a grace too deliberate to be casual. His hands clasped, his eyes lowered, his face unreadable. Yet even in stillness, the chamber trembled. The walls seemed to hold their breath. The air quivered softly around him, as though reality itself lingered in hesitation, waiting upon his words.
None came.
So Toran spoke instead.
"I'm aware of what you want," he began. His tone was low, yet firm, like water wearing away stone. "But you are not ready."
The words fell heavy, heavier even than Adam's silence.
The lords exchanged glances, but none dared interrupt. The sharp defiance of Johan, the cutting temper of Kon, the restlessness of Trevor—all had been smothered under the storm. They were no longer eager to speak.
Toran's violet gaze swept the circle. "Even united, you are not prepared to face the forces now guarding ArchenLand. The one seated upon its throne is being guarded, by one…" His pause was deliberate, grave. "… who is Unranked."
A ripple moved through the council.
Jeth blinked first, whiskers twitching. "Beg pardon?"
Trevor raised his hand, an almost childlike gesture, though his voice shook with nerves. "What does that even mean?"
Toran's eyes flicked toward them—indigo, unyielding. "It means they exist beyond the Law of Ranking. Beyond Hazël, Özel, or even the Forgotten Orders. They are singularities. They are… a mass of their own will."
The words were not shouted. Yet the crystal walls seemed to shiver at their weight.
Darius exhaled, long and weary, as though a burden he had feared but not named had now been confirmed. His eyes closed. "The hooded one," he murmured. The memory was sharp still—the figure upon the battlefield, the one who had crushed them without effort, the shadow that had made their oaths falter.
Toran inclined his head. "Yes. You've seen him."
The confirmation was worse than suspicion.
Johan spoke then. His voice, so often burning with certainty, cracked at the edges. "So what then? Abandon the land we swore to protect?"
The raccoon's words hung in the air, accusing and desperate both. His tail twitched violently, betraying the storm beneath his rigid posture. He wanted action, he wanted to fight, he wanted anything but this helpless waiting. The silence gnawed at him more than defeat itself.
Toran's answer was gentle, yet it rang like iron.
"No. You wait. You heal. You train." His gaze shifted, lingering on each of them in turn. "And when the time is right—you strike."
The chamber had grown heavy with Toran's decree of waiting. Yet it was Jeth, irreverent as ever, who broke it.
"Waitin' ain't a strategy," the rat muttered under his breath, though the words still carried in the crystal hall. "It's surrender."
The words cut sharp because they echoed what many of them feared. Waiting—what if it was nothing but slow defeat, disguised? What if patience was only cowardice wearing finer clothes?
But Toran did not flinch. Instead, a faint smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, rare and deliberate. "Not if you act while you wait."
Several pairs of eyes turned toward him, unsure.
"Carlon," Toran continued, his voice like the shifting of tides, steady and sure, "took many refugees from Narn after the Great Narn War. They're scattered across its border towns—enslaved, cast out, forgotten. If you must move, then move there. Strike where the Shadow isn't lookin'."
Trevor's brow furrowed. His tail flicked once. "You want us to become criminals."
Toran's gaze settled on him. "I want you to become ghosts," he said, each word measured. "Blades in silence. Wolves in the night."
The imagery sat heavy in the air, stirring something grim yet resolute. Not open war—not yet. But a hidden hand, a silent claw, pulling threads where no one saw.
Darius groaned softly and rubbed at his temples, the weight of years pressing on his ox-like shoulders. "Should we inform Lord Dirac?" His tone was careful, respectful, but wearied. He knew the strain that already pressed on Kürdiala's king.
Toran shook his head firmly. " Nay. Dirac's hold on the throne is fragile. The Seven Seas are still in a flux. The last thing he needs is our weight added to his crown."
Jeth leaned forward now, his smirk returning, though sharper, like a blade catching firelight. His whiskers twitched with a cunning thought. "So we spin the web and wait for the fly."
"Yes," Toran said, his voice resonant. "Be patient. The spider always waits. The lion waits. The wolf waits. You are not weak for waitin'. You are only weak if you forget your cause."
The words settled like seeds into the chamber.
Some bristled, some bowed, some felt the ache of pride smothered again. But all of them listened.
The table lay silent. For a moment, no one moved.
Then—Adam's hand stirred.
It moved slowly, deliberately, until his blue fingers rested against the surface of the crystal table. The crystal seemed to breathe beneath his touch, faint light pulsing in rhythm with his own heartbeat. A single flare of mana echoed through the chamber, low and resonant, humming as if the stone itself had heard a vow.
"I haven't forgotten," Adam said quietly.
The words were soft, yet they carried more weight than shouts. The air bent with them. The lords felt them in their chests, not just their ears.
All heads turned.
His blue fur shimmered faintly in the crystal glow, not as it once had, but with an otherworldly sheen—like lines of light were etched into him, hidden veins of crystal beneath flesh. His eyes lifted, and the golden flecks within them burned brighter, stars flaring in the depths of twin blue moons.
"When the moment comes…" His voice was calm, almost gentle. But beneath it was iron, fire, storm. "I'll make them all remember."