➺✧✦ Chapter Seven ✦✧➺
Beyond the Borders of Wysteria
After crossing the Great River of Fire that marked the edge of the kingdom and the beginning of the unknown lands, Martin stood beside his legendary steed, Tricia, gazing into the shadowed maw of the Ancestors' Cavern.
It was a place wrapped in myth, known only to a few, where the Round Table convened and fateful decisions were forged—decisions that shaped kingdoms and kindled wars.
The cavern towered before him with a majesty so immense that even the giants, with their towering frames, could not touch its vaulted heights. Darkness flooded its depths, thick and alive, as though it devoured light itself. Yet Martin required no torch; his seasoned eyes had long since learned to bend with the night.
He advanced with measured steps, and with every footfall the air grew heavier, as though the ancient stone was watching, testing the worth of his presence. Not all were permitted to tread these halls—only those whose names were carved into the chronicles of glory and blood.
After a long passage, Martin reached a vast chamber carved from the mountain's heart. Before him loomed a gate without doors—merely an opening into another realm. At its center rested a great Round Table, weathered by time, its surface cracked and scarred by the ages it had endured. The table was immense, enough to seat the mightiest of warriors and rulers. Around it, the stone walls were etched with strange sigils that shimmered faintly, as if whispering tales only those who had written history with sword and blood could truly understand.
In that silence, a familiar voice rose from the shadows:
"Lord Martin the Wise… you arrive first, as you always do."
Martin turned to see Ghimodelon the Sage approach with unhurried steps. A man of curious stature, born of both human and dwarf blood—bearing the shape of a man but the density of dwarven bone and muscle. He wore the robes of a sorcerer, from which maps and arcane scrolls dangled like trophies of knowledge. He was no warrior but a mind sharpened for strategy, a master of instant travel whose counsel had become indispensable in every war and every political gambit.
Martin allowed himself a faint smile.
"Ghimodelon the Wise—if you call me wise in your presence, that is humility indeed."
Moments later, another figure entered. A man in a long coat, his build neither stout nor lean, his steps precise, and his eyes gleaming with the hunger of a merchant who never missed a bargain. This was Lord Stekker, master of the black market, sovereign of shadows and unholy deals.
"Martin, Ghimodelon… how fares the night?" he asked with mocking ease.
Martin replied coolly, without turning.
"Stekker. So you came."
Stekker's lips curled into a sly grin.
"You know me—I never miss the scent of business. A meeting such as this? I would sooner die than stay away."
Before their words could stretch further, the chamber was filled with the echo of slow, deliberate steps. A tall man, wrapped in a dark cloak, emerged, exuding an aura heavy with power and mystery. All eyes fixed upon him, save for Ghimodelon, who already understood.
"Why are you here?" the sage demanded sternly.
The newcomer's voice cut through the air like frost.
"I serve my king's will—the King of Demons, Lord of Desthesia. He could not come, for matters most urgent bind him. I am his right hand—Orzis Gron. With my eyes I shall see, with my ears I shall hear, and with my hand I shall act."
Martin's lips twitched with a quiet smile, while Stekker's eyes narrowed, weighing the stranger's measure. Ghimodelon, however, stood tense, unease etched into his frame at the presence of the demons' envoy.
Then, suddenly, the chamber grew cold, as if the night itself had slipped inside. At the entrance stood a woman of overwhelming presence—her hair black as midnight waves beneath the dim torches, her crimson eyes wandering the room with regal indifference.
She was none other than Altheria Mont Cragson Hart, Queen of the Vampires.
Stekker let out a mocking gasp.
"Her? I never thought she'd deign to come."
Orzis said nothing, only watched her warily, his demonic instincts prickling in warning.
The council gathered at the Round Table, the atmosphere thick with foreboding. This assembly was unlike any that had come before—for this time, the fate of all kingdoms hung in the balance.
Martin turned to Ghimodelon.
"Will not the Giant King attend? And where is the Dwarven Lord? Their alliance with us fifty years ago was no trifling oath. Their absence troubles me."
The sage inclined his head gravely.
"It troubles me as well. Yet the Dwarven Lord is cautious by nature. I do not believe he would—"
"Finish it, Ghimodelon," Martin pressed.
With a sigh, the sage completed his thought.
"—I do not believe he would ever ally with our enemies."
Martin fell silent, then murmured darkly,
"And that, precisely, is what I fear most."
At that, Stekker slipped a ring from his pocket, letting it glint beneath the chamber's pale light.
"There is something you must know. A precious relic has appeared in the markets of late—brought to me by an elven woman."
Ghimodelon leaned closer, studying it.
"What is this?"
Martin's voice thundered, his composure cracking.
"That—!"
Stekker's grin widened.
"So, you recognize it."
Martin's eyes hardened to stone.
"This belongs to Antonio Roud, merchant of Wysteria. How could it have found its way into elven hands? He knows well such dealings are forbidden—especially in my kingdom."