Chapter Fifty: The Collapse Begins
Back in the heart of the Bastion, Caedren stood before his council. He had not shared everything he had learned in the dark corners of his kingdom. Not yet. But the time was coming when he would need to choose who could be trusted, and who had already betrayed him. The high windows of the council chamber allowed cold shafts of gray light to pour in, cutting across the room like judgment. Outside, the skies churned with stormclouds. A fitting reflection of the storm building within.
Lord Alaric was standing at the head of the table, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes carefully avoiding Caedren's. The tension in the room was palpable, like a bowstring drawn tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Around the long oak table, the other councilors sat stiffly in their chairs. None dared speak first.
"You're all hiding something," Caedren said, his voice calm, but the anger simmering beneath it was unmistakable. He moved slowly along the edge of the table, his gloved hand trailing across its surface. "And I will find out what it is. One way or another."
The silence that followed was not one of denial. It was too complete, too practiced. These men and women knew the weight of silence. Some of them had likely trained with it, mastered it. It was the silence of those who had already decided where their loyalties lay.
Alaric's eyes flickered. "Your Grace, we only do what is necessary for the kingdom."
"Necessary?" Caedren's voice rose sharply, echoing through the vaulted chamber. "What's necessary is loyalty! What's necessary is truth! You speak of necessity, but I've seen the lies, Alaric. I've walked through the rot buried beneath our walls. I've seen the symbols etched in blood beneath the mountain. And I will not let this kingdom be destroyed by those who claim to protect it."
There was a murmur among the council. Faces turned toward one another. A cough. A rustle of fabric. Small sounds, but in that room they roared with unspoken fear.
Alaric remained silent, but there was something in his gaze, a flicker of something Caedren couldn't quite place. It was almost as if Alaric was waiting for something to happen—waiting for the kingdom to tear itself apart.
Caedren looked from one face to another. Lady Mereth, the steward, had always been quiet, but now her hands trembled ever so slightly. Lord Harthal, the commander of the southern watch, wouldn't meet his eyes. Even the old priest, Brother Kell, kept his hands folded tightly, as if in prayer, though the words on his lips were silent.
It was Tarn who finally broke the silence.
He stepped into the room from the side entrance, his cloak still wet from the rain. "We don't have time for riddles, Caedren. They're not going to confess. They never do. Not until it's far too late."
The council turned, startled. Some hadn't known Tarn had returned. Others had hoped he would never return at all.
"Tarn," Alaric said, his voice steady but lacking warmth. "You should not be here. This is a private session."
Tarn walked forward without asking leave. He stopped beside Caedren, his eyes locked on Alaric. "Private? You mean secret. Like the meetings in the catacombs. Like the oaths taken in the dark, while the king slept above."
A ripple of shock ran through the council. Even those who had kept their silence now exchanged glances.
Caedren seized the moment. "He speaks the truth. We found the gathering. We found the marks. We know about the Serpent."
Lady Mereth gasped. Lord Harthal paled. Brother Kell closed his eyes.
Alaric, however, did not flinch. He merely exhaled slowly, as if the weight of concealment had finally become too much. "Then you understand, finally. You understand how small your crown truly is."
Caedren stepped forward, fury etched across his face. "Speak plainly. What are you? What have you sworn yourselves to?"
Alaric looked up at him, his gaze unwavering. "We swore ourselves to the truth buried beneath this kingdom. To the power that built it long before your so-called Ashen Oath. There are forces older than thrones, older than swords. And they are awakening."
Tarn drew his dagger, though it remained at his side. "You sold out your king for whispers. You serve something that doesn't bleed."
Alaric smiled faintly. "Then you haven't seen enough."
The chamber doors slammed open with a gust of wind. A soldier stumbled in, blood streaming from his temple.
"Attack!" he gasped. "The eastern gate has fallen! They're inside the walls!"
The council erupted in panic. Chairs scraped, voices rose, but Caedren stood unmoving.
Tarn turned to him. "It's starting. This is the collapse."
Caedren nodded slowly. His voice was low but resolute.
"Then we begin again, not with silence… but with fire."
And as the Bastion shook with distant thunder and the cries of the first breach, Caedren drew his sword.