Chapter Forty-Five: The Council's Betrayal
Caedren stood in the heart of the Bastion, his mind ablaze with questions. Neris' words echoed in his ears, sharpening the shadows that had begun to creep through the cracks of his kingdom. Betrayal was a silent, insidious thing, and it had slithered its way into the very walls he trusted.
The Council was meeting, a gathering of his most trusted advisors. The flickering light of the torches illuminated their faces, but none of them met his gaze directly. Instead, they spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting between each other, an undercurrent of anxiety beneath their composed facades.
Tarn Virell, recently returned from his travels, stood at the back of the room, his eyes fixed on Caedren with an unreadable expression. His presence was a stark reminder of the fragmented pieces of the kingdom's fractured past. Tarn knew more than he let on, and Caedren wasn't sure whether to trust him or to cast him out.
"Your Grace," began Lord Alaric, the head of the council, his voice practiced and steady, "we are on the brink of war. The northern territories are in open rebellion, and the trade routes to the east are being sabotaged. We cannot afford to hesitate."
"War?" Caedren's voice was sharp, cutting through the murmurs of the room. "War is not the answer. There's something deeper at play here, something more insidious. I feel it."
Alaric's expression hardened, but only for a moment. "Your Grace, I assure you, the rebellion is real. We must act swiftly, before they gain more ground."
"Then tell me," Caedren demanded, his voice rising, "how many of you have been speaking to the rebels? How many of you are already in their pockets?"
The room went dead silent.
No one moved. No one breathed.
A long pause stretched between them like a blade suspended in the air.
"Your Grace," murmured Lady Mavren, a senior diplomat, "such accusations will only breed fear. Surely you don't believe your own council—"
"I believe," Caedren interrupted coldly, "that the enemy has stopped coming from outside. They are here. In this room."
The torchlight flickered, casting twisted shadows across the stone walls.
Tarn stepped forward, the silence parting for him like a curtain.
"There are whispers," he said quietly, addressing the council but keeping his eyes on Caedren. "The Assenters have agents among us. Their symbols have been found etched into coins, blades, even inside coded letters meant for council members."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Lord Halric's face turned pale. Lady Mavren looked away. Alaric stood unflinching, but his jaw clenched just slightly—a subtle twitch, but Caedren caught it.
"You speak of whispers and fear," Alaric said slowly. "But do you have proof?"
Tarn stepped closer. "Enough. For now." He placed a worn leather pouch on the council table. From it, he drew a silver token—an open eye surrounded by flames.
The mark of the Assenters.
Caedren stepped forward and took it in his hand. It was cold. Too cold. The chill of ancient fire, the kind that did not warm, only burned.
"Where did you find this?" Caedren asked.
"Beneath a floorboard in the guest quarters," Tarn said. "In the room where Lord Halric's envoys stayed last week."
Halric's mouth opened to protest, but Caedren raised a hand.
"No one leaves," Caedren said, voice iron. "Not until I have answers."
A guard stepped forward from the archway, closing the great stone doors of the council chamber with a boom.
"Interrogate us now?" Alaric asked. "Is that what this kingdom has come to?"
"This kingdom was born from ash and silence," Caedren answered. "It will not fall to whispers and betrayal."
Lady Mavren stood, her voice trembling slightly. "Your Grace, we must tread carefully. If the council fractures—"
"It already has," Caedren said. "I just want to know where the cracks lead."
Silence again.
Then Tarn spoke, his tone grim.
"Some of the coins bore older markings, too. Not just the Assenter sigil. They were mixed with Sanctuary glyphs. Someone is trying to resurrect the war Ivan tried to bury."
Alaric finally moved, stepping away from the table. "You speak of ghosts. Paranoia."
"I speak of truth," Tarn snapped. "You were in the east three months ago. At that time, the rebels in the north hadn't even risen. Yet we found orders signed by your seal in a cache taken from a captured rebel courier."
Caedren turned to Alaric.
"Tell me it's not true."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "I serve this realm."
"You serve something," Caedren said. "But it isn't us."
The room erupted. Voices clamored, accusations flew. Scribes who had been quietly recording the session now backed away as tensions escalated. Guards stepped forward. Blades were not yet drawn—but they could be.
Caedren raised his voice above the din.
"Enough!"
Silence returned.
"I will root out the rot," Caedren declared. "Even if I must burn away half the tree to save it."
He turned to Tarn. "Bring me the full list of encoded names. Everyone tied to these tokens. We begin the inquest tonight."
"And the council?" Tarn asked.
Caedren looked at the twelve figures before him—his council, his trusted allies, the architects of his new world—and felt the weight of each heartbeat in the room.
"They stay. But under guard. None leave. Not until I know who still serves the dream, and who serves only their own ends."
From outside the closed chamber, the storm had begun to rise.
Rain lashed the windows.
And in the silence of the great hall, the dream of the Kingless World trembled—but did not break.