The Council of Kingdoms convened beneath a dome of white stone, its ceiling etched with centuries of treaties, alliances, and broken promises. Banners hung in perfect symmetry—human kingdoms, merchant republics, city-states, neutral orders, and distant powers whose borders had never touched goblin soil but whose wealth had been built upon it all the same.
Every seat was filled.
They had not summoned Aurelian as a criminal.
They had summoned him as a problem.
When he entered, the hall fell quiet.
No guard dared touch him. No herald announced him. He did not bow.
He walked to the center of the chamber alone, black uniform stark against marble and gold. The sword at his side remained sheathed, but its presence was unmistakable.
The High Arbiter spoke first.
"Aurelian Kael Vorthane," he said. "You stand before this council not as a subject, but as a force. Your conquests have reshaped the continent. You have dismantled goblin dominions that stood for centuries."
Aurelian inclined his head slightly. "Facts require no defense."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
The Arbiter continued. "You have liberated more human territories from goblin rule than all our kingdoms combined."
Another pause.
"And yet," the Arbiter said carefully, "your methods have caused… alarm."
Aurelian looked around the hall.
"Alarm," he repeated.
A representative from the Eastern Coalition rose. "You ordered an assault knowing human slaves would be used as shields."
"Yes."
"You proceeded regardless."
"Yes."
"You sacrificed hundreds of human lives."
"Yes."
The word echoed.
A noblewoman stood abruptly. "How dare you speak of it so plainly?"
Aurelian turned to her. "How dare I lie?"
The hall erupted in overlapping voices.
"Murderer!"
"Butcher!"
"Liberator!"
"Monster!"
The Arbiter struck his staff against the floor. "Order!"
Silence returned—uneasy, incomplete.
"You justify atrocity with inevitability," said the noblewoman. "You cloak brutality in history."
Aurelian folded his hands behind his back.
"Then answer me," he said calmly.
The council stilled.
"Name one liberation," he said, "in all of recorded history—one—earned without blood."
No one spoke.
"Name one empire," he continued, "that relinquished power because it was asked politely."
A merchant lord shifted uncomfortably.
"Name one enslaved people," Aurelian said, "who were freed because their masters suddenly grew kind."
Still nothing.
Aurelian nodded once.
"Then do not pretend this is new," he said. "Do not pretend this is unique. Do not pretend this offends you because it is immoral. It offends you because it is honest."
A diplomat from the southern states stood. "There are limits. Civilization exists to impose limits."
"On whom?" Aurelian asked. "The powerful—or the desperate?"
"You speak as though cruelty is virtue," the diplomat snapped.
"No," Aurelian replied. "I speak as though denial is weakness."
He stepped forward.
"You sit in this chamber because someone, somewhere, once chose violence over extinction," he said. "Your borders are written in blood you no longer remember. Your laws are enforced by threats you no longer see."
A scholar rose. "You reduce history to brutality."
"No," Aurelian said. "I strip away its lies."
The scholar faltered.
"You call my methods brutal," Aurelian continued. "But tell me—how many generations lived and died in goblin chains while you debated sanctions?"
A representative shouted, "We were negotiating!"
Aurelian turned sharply.
"For how long?" he asked. "Ten years? Fifty? A century?"
Silence answered.
"You negotiated while children were born enslaved," Aurelian said.
"You negotiated while men were worked to death."
"You negotiated while goblin cities prospered on human labor."
"And now," he said, "you object to the cost of ending it."
A councillor muttered, "This is the logic of tyrants."
Aurelian smiled faintly. "Every tyrant in history has said the same of their conquerors."
The Arbiter leaned forward. "Your ideology leaves no room for restraint."
"It leaves room for outcome," Aurelian replied. "Restraint without result is surrender disguised as virtue."
A noble shouted, "So any atrocity is acceptable to you?"
Aurelian shook his head. "No. Only those that break the system."
"Then who decides?" the noble demanded.
"I do," Aurelian said.
The words landed like a blade on stone.
Gasps followed.
"That," said the Arbiter quietly, "is precisely the danger."
Aurelian met his gaze.
"No," he said. "The danger is believing no one will."
He straightened.
"You fear me because I do not hide behind collective guilt," he said. "I do not dilute responsibility through councils and committees."
"I choose."
"I act."
"And I accept the consequences."
A woman whispered, "You speak of destiny."
"I speak of inevitability," Aurelian replied. "The goblin order was unsustainable. It would have ended in blood whether I acted or not."
"I simply chose when."
The Arbiter exhaled slowly. "And the human slaves who died?"
Aurelian's voice did not soften.
"They were victims of a system older than me," he said. "Their deaths ended that system in those lands forever."
"And if history condemns you?" the Arbiter asked.
"Then history will be free to condemn," Aurelian replied. "Because history will exist without chains."
The chamber fell silent.
No verdict was issued.
No punishment declared.
They could not command him.
They could not stop him.
And they could not deny what he had accomplished.
As Aurelian turned to leave, a diplomat whispered to another, "He believes blood is the currency of freedom."
The other replied, "And the terrifying thing is—history keeps proving him right."
Aurelian did not look back.