The Grand Hall of Ferros Keep was a monument to harsh power. Black stone pillars held up a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Torches and contained fire-element mana crystals provided a flickering, brutal light. At the far end, on a dais, sat Lord Edric Ferros.
The man matched his keep. He was broad, middle-aged, with a close-cropped iron-grey beard and eyes like chips of flint. His aura was a controlled inferno of earth and fire—3rd Order, 2nd Rank. He wore functional armor adorned only with his sigil. To his right stood a severe-looking Elven woman, her aura a complex weave of wind and growth—his Spymaster or Head Advisor. To his left, a hulking Dwarf with a mastercraft warhammer—the Captain of the Guard.
The hall was packed with the power players of the Frostscar Vale. Minor lords in fine furs, their champions—burly warriors, sleek assassins, a few elementalists with crackling auras. Mercenary captains with mixed-race bands. And in a reserved section, the outsiders: Kael's Tower disciples, a pair of hooded figures from the Whispering Deeps (their auras a susurrus of psychic noise), and a solitary, elegant Vampire in dark silks, sipping wine that was decidedly not wine.
Factor Jaxom was already kneeling before the dais, presenting his tribute scroll. Lord Ferros listened with minimal interest, his gaze already sweeping the hall, assessing the new pieces on his board.
Then it was time for the "notable talents." Names were called. A woman from a western hamlet who could purify water with a touch. A hunter who could merge his scent with the forest. Useful, minor abilities. They were acknowledged and sent to the side.
Then the herald's voice boomed, "Damien of Hearth's Watch, called the Frost-Warden. Presented by Factor Jaxom and… noted by the Star-Swallowing Tower."
A ripple went through the hall. Noted by the Tower. That was a statement. All eyes turned as Damien walked forward. He felt the weight of a hundred spiritual senses brushing against him, testing his boundaries. His Avatar, fully materialized but invisible, stood beside him, a cold shield that turned aside the more invasive probes.
He stopped before the dais and gave a slight, correct bow—not of submission, but of protocol.
Lord Ferros leaned forward. "Frost-Warden. Jaxom's reports speak of you cleansing the Silver Vein blight. The Tower's interest is… pronounced. Demonstrate your worth."
This was the gauntlet. Not a request. An order.
Damien straightened. He didn't look at Ferros. He looked at Kael, who stood with his disciples, a smug expectation on his face.
"I was tasked with a demonstration," Damien said, his clear voice carrying in the silent hall. He unslung the lead box, opened it, and lifted out the Glacial Silverite Core.
A collective intake of breath. The Core pulsed with its deep blue light, washing the hall in cold, ethereal hues. The temperature dropped noticeably. Lords shivered. The Elven advisor's eyes widened. The Dwarf captain grunted in appreciation.
"This," Damien announced, "is a stabilized geomantic core, forged from the purified heart of the Silver Vein. It contains the concentrated essence of the mountain's new winter." He turned and walked not to the dais, but to the center of the hall, where a large, central fire pit burned. "Its energy is pure, dense, and sustainable. A cultivator of compatible affinity could use it to advance a full sub-rank. An Artificer could power a city ward for a month. Or," he said, looking directly at Kael, "it could be drained as a mere meal."
He turned and threw the Core into the fire pit.
Gasps. Kael took a step forward, face contorted in rage. "You fool!"
But Damien was already acting. He raised a hand. His Avatar materialized fully for all to see—a being of sculpted ice and pale light, a mirror of Damien's calm expression. The hall erupted in exclamations. "A Specter!" "A fully Materialized Avatar!"
The Avatar pointed at the fire pit. The roaring flames, fueled by fire-mana crystals, were licking at the Core. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the Core activated.
It didn't explode. It dominanted.
A wave of absolute cold erupted from the pit. The flames snuffed out instantly, not even leaving smoke. The red-hot stones of the pit turned black, then white with frost. The cold rushed outward in a ring, frosting the boots of the nearest lords, crawling up the stone pillars. The Core, now floating an inch above the frozen pit, glowed brighter, drinking the thermal and fire-mana energy it had just annihilated, its own light intensifying.
It was a display of control, of a power that didn't just oppose fire, but consumed and converted it.
Damien recalled the Core. It flew to his hand, now slightly warmer to his touch, its energy even greater. He turned back to the dais, the Avatar fading from view.
"The Frost-Core is not just a battery," he stated. "It is a converter. A stabilizer. It can turn hostile energy into usable frost-attuned power. It can cleanse corruption, as it did in Hearth's Watch. This is my worth."
The hall was dead silent. Then Lord Ferros began to laugh, a low, grinding sound like stone on stone. "By the molten heart, boy. You have flair." His flinty eyes held a new, calculating light. "A converter… Such a thing would be invaluable on a battlefield, or to secure a volcano-tainted mine." He glanced at the Tower disciples, his expression turning challenging. "The Tower's 'interest' is noted. But the Frost-Core, and its maker, are in my hall."
Kael's face was a mask of fury, but he was outmaneuvered. Publicly claiming the Core now would be an act of war against Ferros. He gave a stiff, seething bow. "The Tower merely observes the potential, Lord Ferros. We are always… shopping."
The tension was palpable. Damien had done it. He had made himself a prize so publicly valuable that no single faction could simply seize him without consequence. He had turned the Tower's greed into a shield, using Ferros's pride as the bulwark.
[Directive Progress: 'Navigate the Conclave' - 40% complete. Host status elevated from 'asset' to 'strategic resource'. Bidding tension established.]
As he was directed to stand with the other acknowledged talents, he felt new eyes on him. The Elven advisor was studying him with intense curiosity. The hooded figures from the Whispering Deeps had leaned forward, their psychic whispers directed his way. And the solitary Vampire raised his glass in a silent, ironic toast.
The Conclave had begun. The Frost-Warden was on the board. And every player in the room was now calculating how to use him, control him, or break him.
Damien's Oculus showed him the threads—golden threads of potential alliance from Ferros, black threads of Tower resentment, silver threads of elven inquiry, crimson threads of vampiric interest. The web was intricate, and he was at its center.
He had survived the presentation. Now, the real game began.