Council of the Great Houses

Rain churned the rutted road as Eiran, Mira, Narsa, and Talin crested the last rise before Almdor. The city spilled down the mountain’s western face, its towers and domes flashing gold and blue beneath a storm-laden sky. Unlike Vael’s small, lost hush, Almdor was alive with noise—a thousand voices, the clang of bells, the thunder of hooves and wheels on stone. Rivers of people poured through switchback streets, cloaks plastered to skin by rain and the misting spray from the weirs below.

Eiran drew tight his battered cloak, jaw clenched against the cold—and awe. In all his wanderings, he had never imagined such scale: palaces clutching the cliffs, windows ablaze with colored lanterns; banners streaming from parapets, each blazoned with the sigils of ancient houses—a golden hawk, a spiral tower, a sword crossed with a laurel branch. But beneath the splendor, tension was thick. Double patrols stood at the gates, eyeing arrivals with a professional suspicion that suggested recent unrest. Even from miles off, the air tasted of unrest and secrets.

Talin slowed, glancing sidelong at his companions. “Stick close. In Almdor, gold spends fast but trust buys slow.”

Mira set her jaw, voice a low secret. “We must find House Serel—they owe me a debt, and their word still carries weight. But… don’t expect the council to heed warnings lightly.”

They queued at the city gates, shivering as the rain thickened. A grim-faced sergeant took names—sometimes real, sometimes invented—and eyed Narsa’s staff with particular suspicion, but Mira’s itinerant papers and the battered scarred star-stone badge did open the doors. At last, sodden and hungry, the party plunged into Almdor’s lower city, skirted the riotous markets of Copperlane, and followed stone stairs carved with runes older than memory toward the heights.

Almdor’s grandeur pressed in on every side. Temples loomed among incense-laden courtyards; the river Aranil flashed silvered grey between garden bridges and colonnaded halls. Mira kept them moving, ignoring the gawking children and jeers of youths in House Iskan blue. Wealth and ruin jostled shoulder to shoulder: rag-clad beggars huddled in archways, passing beneath gilded balconies where noble children played at dueling with wooden blades.

At a copper-inlaid portal, Talin rapped, the heavy knocker echoing like thunder. The doors swung wide to admit a tall woman, the lines of her gown sharp as her gaze. Silver streaked her hair—Emarin, Seneschal to House Serel, and once, Talin’s comrade at arms. She greeted the party with guarded warmth, only the brief embrace she gave Talin betraying past affection.

“You bring rain in your wake, and word came ahead of trouble in the hills,” she said, studying each of them. “If you seek the Council, you must move quickly—rumors fly faster than couriers, and the Houses have grown… restless.”

They wasted no time. Within the hour, Emarin had secured them a hearing before the Council of the Great Houses, the highest chamber in Almdor.

--

The Council sat beneath a dome of star-glass, mosaics swirling overhead in the holy shapes of Andarin’s constellations before the fall. Pillars of red marble soared, light slanting across the waxen faces of the great and prideful. The scene was chaos in elegant disguise: servants bearing messages, scribes scratching records, lords and ladies in their panoply of power.

House Serel’s Aelderman held the chair: Floren Serel, stern and unyielding, wearing the weight of tradition like old armor. Beside him stood Lady Marion Iskan—a beauty traced by cunning, her fan flicking idly—and Lord Daven Rhys, the hawkish speaker of trade. Four more councilors made up the ranks, each guarded by banners, aides, and suspicion. Every word in the chamber dripped with ceremony, but everything hung on the edge of contention.

Mira stepped forward to speak, with Eiran and Talin at her shoulders, Narsa a shadow behind. “Honorable Council, I come not as petitioner only, but as witness. I bring survivors of Vael—who saw the cult’s darkness raze their home, who bear the ancient signs foretold in prophecy.”

Floren Serel’s gaze, old and sharp as a mountain goat’s, swept the group. “The same cult spoken of in a dozen trader’s tales this month—blaming fire and ill fortune on old myths? Why come to Almdor for superstitions, when real threats cloud our borders?”

Lord Rhys snorted. “Bandits, drought, and starving refugees—these are the concerns of men. Not this star-marked nonsense.”

Narsa huffed, muttering beneath her breath. Eiran felt heat crawl up his neck, but forced himself to stand straighter. “Would bandits summon shadows darker than night to destroy villages? Would drought twist men into monsters? We saw what happened. We barely lived.”

Mira unfolded the star stone. Its cracks pooled with inner fire—subtle, yet commanding. The light flickered over the council table, and for an instant every eye was drawn, hungry or afraid. Lady Iskan’s painted mask slipped, envy and anxiety vying as she leaned forward.

“It is said,” Mira pressed, “that the Star of Andarin has broken, and the world with it. You must prepare—send warning to the outlying provinces, close your gates to the cult’s agents, or Almdor will fare no better than Vael.”

A hubbub rose. The councilors conferred in urgent whispers; some still concealed sneers behind gold-threaded sleeves. Eiran saw it now: the Houses were less a wall, more a flock of cats, each clawing for its own advantage.

At last, Floren Serel lifted a hand for silence. “We thank you for your warning. But Almdor’s duties are many. Prove these claims—bring us something more than flames and rumors. Until then, the watch will remain on alert, but our resources cannot be scattered on every tale of darkness.”

Disbelief stung sharper than steel. Mira’s fists whitened at her sides; Talin’s jaw bunched. Narsa drew a spiral of pale blue light through her palm before tucking her hand away, eyes smoldering.

Before Mira could press further, a cry echoed from the colonnade beyond the council chamber. Scribes scattered. A woman, thin and desperate, burst past the guards—dagger flashing in her hand, streaming with rain. Her eyes were milky, her lips muttering words far older than the city’s stones. She lunged for Lord Rhys, steel bared for his throat.

Chaos blossomed. Talin moved first, catching the attacker’s wrist, twisting her aside—but she kicked and screamed, “The star must stay broken! Only darkness is mercy!”

Guards swarmed her. Lady Iskan shrieked; Lord Rhys toppled his chair, cursing and livid. The woman’s dagger struck marble and shattered. Black ichor bled from her wrist and eyes, then with a gasp, she collapsed—dead or empty, none could say.

As silence settled, Eiran saw the symbol scorched into her palm: a burning black star, unmistakable. Cold pierced him to the bone.

Mira turned on the council, voice low and fierce. “You see now—the cult is here, inside your walls. Will you help us, or let the darkness feast on your pride?”

But Floren Serel’s face had paled; Lady Iskan drew her fan before her mouth. The council muttered, uncertain, and finally adjourned in disorder, aides scattering to spread a thousand rumors.

Emarin appeared at the party’s side, eyes wide with dread and calculation. “You must leave the council chambers—now. There will be blame, and none of it will be fair.”

They hurried from the dome, ejected back into the rain-washed streets. Above, the banners still snapped bravely in the wind. But below, the city hummed with sharper fear—a secret war now too close to ignore, and allies dwindling even amid towers of plenty.

They gathered in Emarin’s library as dusk fell, tension thick. Mira stared at the rain while Eiran clutched the star stone. Narsa, quieter than ever, murmured, “If even the great houses are blind, where can we go for help?”

Talin answered, voice rough, “North. To Astryn. The library keeps older truths, and maybe in those ruins, hope.”

Eiran nodded, resolve rekindled. Despite the shimmer and promise of Almdor, no help would be forthcoming. The road must go on, deeper and darker than before.

Tomorrow, they would slip from Almdor’s gates for a city of secret books and half-remembered gods, the cult’s shadow over their shoulder—and the longing for allies growing sharper than any edge of steel.