Inside the vast throne hall of Ferrumia, the air was heavy, almost solid, as if the iron of the floor and columns had absorbed centuries of intrigue and betrayal. The torches cast flickering shadows that danced along the black stone walls, projecting distorted silhouettes of the nobles gathered there. Each of them carried the scent of power and ambition, and the tension was palpable, a tight knot in the stomach of all present.
The throne, imposing and cold, seemed to observe every gesture, every contained word, with an almost conscious indifference. Amid the calculated whispers and furtive glances, one could feel the uncertainty of a divided Dominion, where a hasty decision could ignite not only Ferrumia, but the entire Ferralian territory.
Some lords held goblets of wine as if they were swords, others clenched the hilts of sabres, ready to defend their ideals or interests. No one dared speak aloud, but all thoughts intertwined, like weapons primed to fire. It was a meeting of iron, yes, but also of nerves, fear, and broken promises, where every smile hid a secret and every nod concealed a trap.
Within the hall, figures stood out whose names were whispered with respect and fear throughout the Iron Dominion. Lord Garrick Rocciaferro, Commander of Fortifications, paced back and forth, eyes evaluating each column and arch as if the stones themselves could betray their secrets. He was known for turning fortresses into deadly labyrinths, and every decision he made carried the weight of the kingdom's defence.
By his side, Lady Lucia Gelospira, Fortress Commander and Defender of the Borders, maintained an upright posture, her hand always near the dagger she kept concealed. The safety of Gelospire and the border regions rested upon her, and the cold glance she cast at those present reminded all that beneath that contained fury burned a storm ready to erupt.
Vittorio Forgiamonte, Royal Armaments Officer, handled a small pinch of gunpowder between his fingers, almost as if testing the character of anyone daring to meet his gaze. He created weapons that would either kill or protect Ferralian soldiers, and every detail, every blade, and every cannon bore his seal.
Further along, Knight Enzo Spadascura, Supreme Military Commander of Spadaguarda and Royal Executive of Military Justice, observed all with the patience of a stalking predator. The execution of sentences, discipline, and order within the army were his religion, and any slip could cost a life.
Next to him, Master Fabio Martelofurioso, Chief Foreman of the Forge, wore the workshop's dust like armour. Every hammer strike in his mind was a sentence of war or death; he forged weapons and armour that turned people into legends or into iron corpses.
Baron Umberto Carbonesco, head of the Royal Fuel Industry, seemed smaller than the others, but all knew that the coal he controlled fed furnaces and artillery. Without him, the weapons would fail, the fortresses would fall, and Ferralia would burn from within.
And hovering over all like a ritual shadow, Grand Master Orsino Incudisangue, Leader of the Military Cult of Iron, kept his hand on a black iron medallion, murmuring ancient words promising strength, victory, and blood. Every noble in that place felt the weight of his presence: it was not merely faith, it was a power that moulded courage and fear in equal measure.
In a dark corner of the hall, away from the pomp and formality that filled the space, Elizaveta, Lucien Darcos, Gregor, and Dário remained grouped like shadows among shadows. The flickering torchlight partially illuminated their faces, revealing the fatigue and tension of those who had already faced too much blood and betrayal to trust any smile.
Dário frowned, crossing his arms impatiently.
– And after all, what are we still doing here? – he asked in a low, irritated voice. – The Ferralian royal family no longer exists, Dante lies dead a few leagues from here… and us? What are we here to witness? This theatre of cold stone and iron nobles?
Gregor leaned slightly towards him, his eyes attentive to every detail of the hall.
– Right now… we are on the brink of a fragile situation, Dário. Tradition does not allow us to simply abandon the realm. After the death of our suzerain, a conclave must convene to decide who will be the next High Lord, and anyone with Ferralian blood may be chosen – his voice was calm, almost lethal in its restraint, as if every word were a carefully sharpened blade.
Dário let out a low laugh, heavy with scorn. – Ah, it would be a real pity that they cannot choose me. Can you imagine? A splash of colour in this grey kingdom… and they wouldn't all have skin the colour of limestone – he shook his head, the smile a mixture of mockery and challenge. – The northerners need something new to look at, beyond cold walls and pale faces.
Elizaveta remained silent, watching the two men with eyes that combined prudence and calculation. Lucien, for his part, let out a restrained sigh, aware that every word spoken in that corner could be turned against them. He slowly turned to Elizaveta, the torchlight casting shadows across his face, reflecting a calculated determination. The hall, with its black stone columns and echoes of ancestral footsteps, seemed to close in around them, as if the very building observed every movement.
– Among all who are here… no one will dare take the first step – he said in a low tone, yet heavy with warning and opportunity. Every syllable seemed a dagger wrapped in velvet, and the promise of action laced with danger.
He paused, measuring the consequences of every glance cast at the nobles scattered through the hall.
– I propose we begin the conclave – he continued – but I will need you at my side, Elizaveta. I know well that the eyes watching us do not look kindly upon me, even though, officially, I still am one of the Supreme Generals of Ferralia's military forces.
Elizaveta studied him for a moment, the silence between them heavier than any courtly whisper. Then, with a firm and decisive movement, she approached him, her presence imposing like a silent warning to all who might dare question her. She nodded, without words, yet with a firmness that spoke louder than any oath.
Together, they advanced to the centre of the hall, the space that had once belonged to the Ferroforte, now witnessing another chapter of power and ambition. Each step echoed through the hall, every glance from the nobles carried suspicion, envy, or fear, yet they did not falter.
The throne hall of Ferrumia fell silent, as if even the iron of the columns awaited the unfolding of the next move. Lucien, standing firm, raised his voice, cutting through the murmur of the nobles:
– Lords and Ladies, I take the floor to commence the conclave – each word seemed to weigh a ton, echoing against the stone walls, reminding all present that power, in this place, was not given, but won or taken by force.
Before anyone could react, Enzo Spadascura stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and military pride.
– And may I say – he began, his voice heavy with disdain, – how dare a traitor to the realm meddle among us?
The hall held its breath, but before the tension could turn violent, Lucia Gelospira raised her hand, her gaze cold and firm.
– And you are also a traitor – she said, each word a precise blade. – I will not forget that you refused the summons of the High Lord when you were called to aid Lucien against the rebels.
Enzo narrowed his eyes, surprised and wary. – And how do you know that?
Lucia did not hesitate. Her voice was low, almost whispering, yet loaded with authority. – I will not reveal who my informants are – she replied, her gaze sweeping the hall with certainty – but now that the Ferroforte are dead, there is no need to maintain the façade. I was not the only one to aid Dante in his confrontation.
The gazes in the hall began to shift, the tension turning into a cold, calculated chill.
– Vittorio Forgiamonte and Fabio Martelofurioso – she continued through clenched teeth – were responsible for the armaments the rebels have been using. Everything was created in secret, following Silvania's patent, so as not to raise suspicion, and through the tunnels of Gelospire, those weapons reached them.
A murmur returned, this time heavy with shock and fear. Some stepped back, others tightened their grips on their weapons once more, realising that, in that moment, the curtain of loyalty and deceit had been torn. Every noble present understood that the game of power had become more dangerous than they had ever imagined – and that the alliances they believed solid were, in reality, built upon lies, blood, and iron.
Lucien clenched his good hand into a fist, the knuckles white with tension, and lifted his gaze to the hall full of nobles. His voice cut through the silence like a sharp sabre:
– So many excellent soldiers… killed in Dante's rebellion… and why? Unnecessarily! – the echo of his words made the iron and stone walls vibrate. Each syllable carried frustration, pain, and a resentment long hidden beneath military discipline. – Tell me now: why did you never join Dante? Did he have to suffer and endure so much? Did he have to die?
Lucia remained upright, cold as the walls of Gelospire, her eyes fixed on him, the mask of calm revealing nothing.
– Because the moment was never right – she replied. – The High Lord hesitated to act against the rebels, and Dante… had not yet achieved the success we desired. We could not risk ourselves before. When he advanced on Ferrumia, there was no time to rally under his banner.
A heavy silence filled the space, broken only by the distant murmur of anxious nobles. In that moment, Lucia's gaze met Lucien's, firm and direct.
– The only time they finally began to see more significant victories was when Elizaveta returned to the kingdom where she was born.
Elizaveta felt the eyes of the entire hall piercing her, like invisible blades of ice probing every movement, every hesitation. Her presence was undeniable; even among the stiffest nobles, a restrained silence marked her power. With a firm voice, yet weighted with irony and authority, she began to speak:
– It was by a stroke of luck that I joined Dante in his rebellion – she said, each word cutting through the hall with sharp clarity. – I was hired for this by Archdruidess Líra Silvanova, who still keeps Elias Ventresca in her dungeon, Dante's last lieutenant – murmurs spread through the hall again, but she did not falter. – Even though Silvania's support was a sham, I fought for his cause. Not for being Ferralian, but because I saw what war did to the kingdom where I was born. I saw the disillusionment the Ferroforte brought, the economic ruin they left in Ferralia. This kingdom should have been the strongest of all nine kingdoms of Terra Solara, and not a field of rubble and ash.
The nobles held their breath. Every sentence was a dagger against tradition and against those still clinging to the memory of the Ferroforte as if it were made of gold. She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across every face, fearless, unyielding.
– A united kingdom – she continued, now with flames in her eyes – could direct all its strength to a single point and destroy those who, in the shadows, did everything to ruin it. Now, five years later, Ferralia can finally breathe. But make no mistake: our enemies will not rest. News of peace will soon reach Silvania, if it has not already, and they will march to destroy us before we can rise from the shadows.
After Elizaveta had spoken her words, the silence in Ferrumia's throne hall had become heavy, as if even the stone itself held its breath. Suddenly, Enzo Spadascura's voice cut through the air, firm, grave, and full of fire:
– Ferralia will never bow before the other kingdoms! They are the ones who will bow before us!
There was a moment when time seemed to suspend itself. Even the sound of breathing seemed amplified. Every noble felt the weight of those words, the tension pressing on their chests as if they were prisoners in a furnace of steel. Enzo slowly raised his sword, the metal reflecting the flickering torchlight, pointing it with an almost ritualistic precision towards Elizaveta.
– Spadaguarda will keep the southern paths protected… protected so that their Queen may cross them and massacre her enemies. The Ice Queen!
His voice reverberated through the hall like a hammer blow on iron. For a moment, the silence returned, heavy and suffocating, as if every noble had been struck by an invisible wave of determination and promises of violence. Slowly, movement began: hesitant hands were raised, wielding swords, and each gaze reflected a mixture of loyalty, devotion, and fear.
The metallic sound of steel filled the hall, growing in a hypnotic rhythm, like a prelude to war. The shouts began to echo, first hesitant, then firm, then in unison:
– The Ice Queen! The Ice Queen! THE ICE QUEEN!