CHAPTER 474: THE DIVIDE

Alaric strode from the Chamber of Council, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow, with Angus and Aramis flanking him at both sides.

The king’s scepter had barely touched the floor when the chamber erupted again—arguments surging like wildfire, voices louder, harsher, split down lines that no longer blurred.

King Heimdal let out a weary sigh, his crown heavy with more than gold, and slipped from the hall to relieve himself, leaving his council untended for some time.

It was all the spark Malik needed.

When the king was gone, Lord Malik’s voice rose above the din. "Do you not see?" He stepped forward, his words fueled by fervor and fear alike. "Even Prince Alaric binds himself to this foreign heir. What clearer proof do you need? A son of Northem throwing his allegiance behind another throne!"

"Blasphemy!" Duke Kasmeri thundered, his hand flashing to the hilt of his blade. His eyes blazed as he took a step forward. "Speak of Alaric so again, and I’ll—"

"Calm down, Duke Kasmeri!" Grio said, his voice slicing through his threat. "Malik only speaks what many of us think but dare not voice. If Estalis is restored under Aragon, then Alaric commands not only the Phoenix Legion but also a vassal kingdom. That is too much power for one man. Even King Heimdal should be wary."

A murmur surged through the chamber—some nodding gravely, others scowling at his words.

Grio Defensor seized the moment, stepping forward with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "At last, sense is spoken. Do not blind yourselves with tales of loyalty and brotherhood. Power corrupts, and no man, no matter how noble, should wield the might of two realms. If we follow this path, we exchange Turik’s tyranny for Alaric’s ambition."

The accusation sliced through the air in the hall, sharp and unforgiving, echoing like the crack of a whip, leaving a stunned silence in its wake.

General Odin’s hand twitched toward his sword, but he mastered the impulse. His voice, though controlled, was razor-sharp. "You insulted Prince Alaric in front of his generals. Do you take him for a usurper, Grio? Do you think he would betray Northem? If he is like that, he should not have hurried here to save Northem from the humiliation of Turik."

But Grio did not flinch. "I say no man should hold the chains of two nations. Not him, not Heimdal, not any mortal soul. That is the road to empire—and empires do not stop until they have devoured every neighbor."

"Better an empire led by Alaric than our people groveling beneath Turik’s yoke!" Kasmeri shouted, his voice shaking with fury.

Others joined him, the knights and younger lords pounding fists against their chests in support. The clamor spread—half the chamber roaring their loyalty to Alaric, the other half murmuring darkly of unchecked ambition.

When King Heimdal returned, the council had ceased to be his; the air was thick with division, and every word seemed to sharpen the fracture.

"Quiet!" he thundered, though the word carried less weight now, swallowed by the chaos.

Lord Malik stepped into the aisle, pointing a trembling hand at Kasmeri."Tell us then, Duke of Greenshire—whose crown do you think Angus would wear in his heart? Alaric’s banner, or Estalis’s throne?"

The room hushed for a breath, every gaze turning toward Kasmeri.

Kasmeri’s jaw tightened. His voice rolled like distant thunder. "Of course, his crown will be Estalis’s. But he made an oath to Alaric. That is the truth I offer you. Doubt it if you must—but you will see it proven on the battlefield."

The answer only deepened the rift within the chamber—some lords clinging to his words as sacred, while others denounced them as a mere web of lies. The room buzzed with a mix of fervent devotion and bitter distrust, each faction unwilling to yield in their convictions.

The Chamber of the Council had become a battlefield without swords, and the war of words threatened to ignite a far more dangerous war of thrones, shouts clashing, whispers hissing, alliances forming in the space of breaths. Nobles turned against nobles, generals against courtiers, knights against lords. What began as a council had erupted into a storm, its thunder echoing through the vaulted ceiling.

King Heimdal slammed his scepter down once more, the crack reverberating like a cannon shot. "Enough! If you will not still your tongues, then leave my hall!"

But the silence that followed was no longer one of obedience. It was wariness. Suspicion. The faces turned toward one another were not those of allies, but of rivals suddenly revealed.

Heimdal’s voice, though calm, carried an unspoken warning. "This session is dismissed. The day after tomorrow, we march for war. But remember this—if Northem falls from within, no enemy will be needed to destroy us."

He waved them toward the banquet hall, hoping food and wine might dull their edges. Yet as the nobles bowed—some with stiff reverence, others with defiance cloaked in courtesy—the rift yawned wider.

The council had not ended with unity. It had ended with division, sharper than any blade.

The nobles bowed stiffly, some in respect, others in defiance barely concealed. One by one, they filed from the chamber, their whispers trailing like serpents into the corridors. The generals and the other courtiers followed.

Only then did Prince Alaric, Aragon, and Vaskar, emerge from the pillar where they stood unmoving, just outside the chamber. They had heard voices of dissent which were carried by the air. Alaric’s eyes were turned hard as stone. Vaskar shifted uneasily beside him, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword. Alaric, though composed, could feel the weight of a dozen daggers hidden behind the words exchanged inside the chamber.

King Heimdal exited the chamber, followed by his entourage.

When Heimdal emerged with his entourage, his eyes found Alaric’s. No words passed, yet the weight between them was heavy, unspoken. They both knew the truth: the war would not be fought only against Estalis. It would be fought here, in the marrow of Northem itself, where loyalty was as fragile as glass.

From the shadows, Lara slipped into the torchlight, her smile fading, replaced by something far more thoughtful, almost grim. The flames along the corridor guttered, shivering as though they too sensed the storm to come.

The torches guttered, their flames wavering as if sensing the storm yet to come.