Chapter Forty-Seven: The Price of Truth
The air in the council chamber felt thick with tension, as if the very stones of the Bastion held their breath. Caedren paced before his advisors, boots striking the ancient floor in steady, angry rhythms. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the walls, stretching and shrinking with each step he took. His mind grappled with the accusations he had just thrown into the room like daggers—accusations that, once spoken, could never be taken back.
The silence that followed was not of confusion. It was fear.
Lord Alaric stood at the front of the council circle, his posture as unwavering as the silver in his hair. A man of old blood and older secrets, Alaric had served through regimes, betrayals, and wars. But tonight, even he seemed unsure beneath Caedren's gaze.
"Your Grace," he began, voice careful, measured like a man walking a blade's edge. "I assure you, no one here—"
"Do not lie to me, Alaric," Caedren snapped, his voice ringing through the hall like thunder. "I know what's happening. This kingdom is being torn apart from within, and I am looking at the very people who are supposed to protect it."
A hush fell again, deeper than before. Alaric's eyes flickered, betraying a crack in his composure, but he said nothing. None of them did. Councilors who had once argued fiercely over taxes or border disputes now sat frozen, caught in the snare of the king's fury.
Caedren turned in a slow circle, his eyes scanning the room—reading every face, every twitch, every breath. He had fought monsters in the dark, walked through fire and ash, seen gods die. But this—this quiet betrayal—cut deeper than steel.
"What is it you're hiding?" he asked, the question quiet but lethal, each word a stone in a collapsing dam. "Tell me the truth, or I will burn this place to the ground to find it."
His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword—not as a threat, but as a symbol. A reminder.
Alaric finally spoke, his voice lower now, grave. "There are powers beyond your understanding, Your Grace. Forces that even the most trusted among us cannot control."
A murmur stirred through the chamber, some shifting in seats, others glancing toward the old vaulted ceiling, where carved angels and beasts watched from stone perches. The flames of the torches guttered, as if stirred by unseen breath.
"And I suppose you are the one to wield these forces?" Caedren asked. His gaze narrowed, and when Alaric did not answer, he stepped closer. "Are you?"
"No." Alaric swallowed hard, the truth sour on his tongue. "Not I. But there are others. People who have waited for centuries. And they are not finished yet."
"Who?" Caedren demanded. "Name them."
Alaric hesitated. "We don't speak their names—not aloud."
"I am not afraid of ghosts."
"These are no ghosts, Caedren." Alaric's voice broke slightly. "They are the architects of forgetting. The ones who built the great silences between kingdoms. They were there before the first throne rose. They will be here after the last one falls."
A soft clink echoed behind Caedren as Tarn Virell entered, having lingered near the chamber's edge, silent until now.
"You're speaking of the Assenters," Tarn said, voice steady.
Every head in the chamber turned toward him.
The name dropped like a stone in water, sending ripples through the stillness. It was a name spoken only in whispers. The kind of name that made lesser men leave their drinks unfinished and barmaids lock their doors before sunset.
Alaric did not flinch. "Call them what you will. The truth is, they never vanished. They simply stepped back, into shadow. And in shadow, they wait."
Caedren clenched his jaw. "Why now?"
"Because you have given the world something to believe in again," Alaric said. "A banner to rally to. And they cannot allow that. They thrive on doubt, on fractures. On forgotten loyalties. They cannot conquer what remembers itself."
There was movement among the council now. A few stood, hands trembling slightly. One, Lady Marien, spoke, her voice dry as parchment. "This is madness. You cannot accuse us all of treason based on ghost stories."
"No," Caedren said. "But I will uncover the truth, and those who helped conceal it will answer."
He stepped back, eyes never leaving the circle. "You are dismissed."
One by one, the councilors filed out, some with dignity, others with unease in their steps. Tarn lingered, approaching Caedren once the room was nearly empty.
"You believe him," Tarn said quietly.
"I don't know what I believe," Caedren admitted. "But I know something is rotting in the roots of this kingdom. And the deeper I dig, the darker it gets."
Tarn handed him a small pouch. Inside were two shards of obsidian—memory-bound stone fragments, pulsing faintly with stored thought.
"From the Collector," Tarn said. "More proof. The second one has Ivan's voice."
Caedren turned the stones in his hand, staring at the glimmer of magic within.
"I thought the past was dead," he whispered.
Tarn looked toward the empty council seats. "It never dies. It waits."
Caedren nodded slowly. Outside, thunder rumbled on the horizon. A storm was coming—not of wind and rain, but of truths long buried and oaths long broken.
And he would face it, crownless or crowned.
Even if it cost him everything.