Seven figures stepped into the palace halls, their robes brushing the marble like shadows with substance. Age had carved deep lines into their faces, but their eyes burned with clarity, sharp as lightning striking stone.
The king rose from his throne, his expression controlled, yet for the first time in decades, he lowered his head just slightly. Not a bow, not submission — a subtle acknowledgment that even a monarch could feel the weight of their presence.
The council followed, tense and uncertain, every whisper and sideways glance betraying fear.
> "We were summoned," the eldest said, his voice low and carrying, "and yet we find chaos in the empire. Tell us why."
A minister stepped forward, voice quivering: "Great Elders… the front has fallen. The army lies in ruin, and the Scythelanders march ever closer."
The Elders exchanged measured glances. No shock. No pity. Only the quiet judgment of men who had built and survived empires.
"So the empire trembles once more," the eldest said, his voice cutting the silence. "Pride has outweighed wisdom, as it always does."
The second Elder shifted slightly forward. A hush ran through the hall. Unlike the others, he carried the aura of the Vale family — a lineage older and mightier than even the combined power of the seven Elders. Whispers spread: the Vales had always been the true guardians of the Empire. Their predecessors had defended it when kingdoms fell, and their blood carried a strength that no decree, no throne, could ever ignore.
Even the king's slight nod could not hide the unspoken truth — the Empire had survived this long because of the Vales' blood, and that power still pulsed quietly beneath the surface.
"So the empire trembles," the eldest said, voice steady yet cutting, "pride has outweighed wisdom. Yet some legacies endure… threads not easily broken."
The second Elder's gaze swept across the hall.
> "Know this," he said, voice echoing like rolling stone, "our power does not belong to this world. Earth binds us, limits us. What we can offer directly is small… but through vessels worthy in body, in soul, in valor, our power may yet rise."
The air trembled as the words sank in. Whispers of doubt and awe ran through the council — some wondered if such vessels even existed, others feared they already did, hidden among them.
> "We will leave this realm soon," the eldest continued. "But before we do, blessings will be laid upon those prepared to face what comes. Take heed, for mere titles and crowns will not suffice. Only true strength, tested by courage and spirit, may bear our legacy."
Every councilor felt the weight of the words. It was no idle warning. The Empire's survival would not come from armies, nor kings, but from those capable of carrying a power that surpassed mortal bounds.
And the seven Elders holds hands together and recites:
"Asta Recta Vira Lumis Tenebris Pactum Ferro Solum Aurum Vali Spiritus Vincere Dunamis Arcanum!"
The air trembled. Light tore through the palace halls, coiling and twisting like living fire. From the Elders' bodies, seven gusts of energy shot outward, spiraling toward the four corners of the earth. Dust and wind whipped through the corridors, banners snapping, torches flickering wildly.
One by one, their forms began to fade, their robes dissolving into sparks of light, their faces blurring like mist. The hall seemed to hold its breath as the Elders vanished completely, leaving behind only the echo of their voices and the power they had unleashed.
The Seven Gifts had appeared — hovering, radiant, and humming with their own living energy — a promise and a warning to all who remained. The Empire had been touched by forces far beyond mortal reckoning, and those who would bear it must be worthy indeed.
As the Elders' forms faded into nothing, the Seven Gifts lingered for a heartbeat — radiant, humming, alive. Then, one by one, they disappeared, vanishing into thin air, each seeking its rightful vessel. The crimson, azure, gold, obsidian, jade, silver, and amethyst Gifts each journeyed silently, guided by unseen will, until they reached those chosen to bear their legacy.
As the Seven Gifts vanished, the king's face turned ashen. The hall, once alive with the Elders' presence, now felt hollow — as if nothing had happened at all.
To him, it was a bitter truth: the Elders had returned to their long slumber. No solution had been offered. No guidance. No reprieve. Worse still, their trump card — the Elders themselves — could not be summoned again. Their power, once given, was gone; fleeting and absolute.
The council shifted uneasily, sensing the monarch's fear. The Empire's last hope had walked among them and then vanished, leaving only uncertainty in its wake. The coming storm would have to be faced by mortal hands alone — or by those whom the Gifts would choose.
The king's face remained ashen, his gaze heavy with disappointment. Without a word, he rose from the throne and signaled to the council.
> "You are dismissed," he said, voice low but firm.
The council bowed and filed out, whispers trailing behind them like shadows. The hall fell silent once more, the weight of the Elders' vanished presence pressing down on the monarch.
Alone now, the king stared at the empty space where divine power had just walked among them. The realization cut deeper than any enemy sword: the Elders could not be called again, and the Empire's survival would depend entirely on mortal hands — and the unseen choices of the Seven Gifts.
He stared at the crown, the simple circle heavy with responsibility, and then a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
The pen, he thought, was mightier than the sword. Battles could be lost, armies destroyed, even the Elders' power fleeting — but words, decisions, and plans carried a force no blade could match.
Tonight, the Empire's survival would depend not on divine Gifts alone, but on cunning, counsel, and the courage to act when the world demanded it. He tightened his grip on the edge of the throne and let the smile linger, a quiet promise to himself: he would face the storm, and he would do so wisely.