CHAPTER 251: THE COUNCIL OF KNIVES

(Narrated by one who sees all chambers, hears all whispers, and knows that truth dies first in rooms where power gathers.)

Dearest reader, if you had stood in the Grand Council Chamber that morning, you would have sworn the air itself had turned to knives.

The room was a monument to Nevareth’s ancient glory, a massive circular space crowned by a domed ceiling of ice crystal so pure it caught every ray of weak winter light and shattered it into cold rainbows.

They danced across walls carved with the empire’s history, across the long obsidian table that dominated the chamber’s center like a sleeping serpent, across the faces of nobles who had come dressed for war wearing silk instead of steel.

The table itself was a work of art and intimidation both.

Black stone polished until it reflected like dark water, carved along its edges with scenes of conquest and coronation, of treaties signed and enemies vanquished.

Seats arranged by rank, dukes closest to the head where power resided, lesser nobles radiating outward in descending circles of influence.

Above them, galleries packed with courtiers who’d arrived hours early to claim the best vantage points.

Scribes sat ready with their parchment and ink, quills poised to record everything, to immortalize this session in the empire’s chronicles. They would write truth or lies depending on who won.

The air was thick with tension, with the weight of unspoken accusations, with the certainty that everyone present knew this was no routine council session.

This was war.

Just fought with words instead of swords, with reputation instead of blood.

They had arranged themselves with the careful precision of opposing armies.

On the left side of the table, Vetra’s faction clustered like frost on glass, cold, spreading, inexorable.

In the second seat, immediately beside where the Regent Empress would sit, Archon-Duke Viktor Virelya held court.

Dressed in his House colors of midnight-blue and silver, every thread expensive, every ornament calculated.

His expression was mild, almost pleasant, but his fingers steepled before him in a gesture reader, you have seen in men who plot.

His eyes moved constantly, cataloging, assessing, already three moves ahead in games the others hadn’t realized they were playing.

The fourth seat held Duke Aldren Frostholm, ancient and traditional as the stones of Nevareth itself.

His robes were conservative, high-collared, embroidered with patterns that had been fashionable when his grandfather ruled these lands.

His face was stern, carved from disapproval and old certainties. Loyal unto death, yes, but to which vision of the empire? That was the question.

Behind Vetra’s chair, standing with the perfect posture of expensive breeding, Lady Isolde Ravencrest watched the chamber with eyes like daggers wrapped in velvet.

Her black dress was elegant, trimmed in silver that caught light with every breath. Cold beauty, the kind that made men stupid and women wary. She was a knife Vetra had sharpened personally.

Her brothers had come too. Lord "aemon Ravencrest sat in ninth seat, military bearing evident in every line of his body despite civilian dress.

The scar across his jaw spoke of real battles, real violence. He watched Eris with open hostility, not bothering to hide what most nobles masked with courtesy. A soldier who saw enemies and allies, nothing in between.

Beside him, in the eleventh seat, Lord Kael Ravencrest, the youngest of the three. Handsome, charming, his smile like honey poured over poison.

His fingers tapped the obsidian table in anxious rhythm, energy barely contained beneath polished manners. Dangerous in a different way than his brother, the kind who smiled while sliding knives between ribs.

Marquess Theron Ashveil, Master of Coin, sat in seventh seat practically vibrating with smugness. His robes cost more than most nobles earned in a year, jewelry dripping from fingers and throat and ears like he’d robbed a dragon’s hoard.

He leaned back in his chair with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how much gold Vetra had promised him for this performance.

Duke Cassius Argentum in the fifth seat looked ready to vomit. Nervous energy radiated from him in waves. His eyes darted around the chamber like a cornered animal’s, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room’s permanent chill.

Whatever Vetra held over him, whatever secret or scandal she’d unearthed, it was enough to make him shake even while sitting down.

And scattered among the lower seats, fifteen lesser nobles, counts, viscounts, barons who owed Vetra either patronage or blackmail. They would vote as she directed, speak when she signaled, a chorus trained to harmony.

The center positions held those who had not yet chosen sides, or claimed they hadn’t.

Duke Konstantin Vael in the third seat wore merchant-prince attire, practical and expensive both. Fine cloth that wouldn’t hinder movement, minimal jewelry that wouldn’t slow flight if necessity demanded it.

His face was carefully blank, giving nothing away while his mind calculated odds like a gambler weighing dice. Which side would profit him more? That was all that mattered.

General Aldrik Winterbane stood rather than sat, military protocol dictating he remain ready despite his rank. Full dress uniform, medals gleaming across his chest like captured stars.

His face was weathered from years commanding armies at the empire’s borders, his eyes conflicted.

Reader, you could see the torn loyalties written in every line of his expression...duty to the Regent Empress who’d promoted him, or duty to the Emperor he’d sworn to serve?

Soren’s allies occupied the right side with notable sparseness.

Duke Elian Stormwatch held seat one, the position of highest honor among the nobility. Young, confident, his hands bearing the scars of someone who’d actually fought rather than commanded from distance.

He sat with warrior’s posture, back straight, eyes alert, ready to defend his emperor with words or steel, whichever proved necessary. Loyalty radiated from him like heat from forge-fire.

Behind Soren, Commander Ryse stood at attention, hand resting on his sword hilt. Not threateningly, just... present.

A reminder that violence remained an option even in civilized spaces. His eyes swept the chamber constantly, cataloging threats, identifying weak points in defenses both political and physical. Protecting his emperor from every angle.

Aldric sat lower at the table, positioned as secretary rather than participant. His quill was ready, his parchment pristine, but reader, you should know—his ears were sharpest in the room.

He would miss nothing, record everything, provide Soren with intelligence that might prove more valuable than any noble’s vote.

Scattered among the remaining right-side seats, eight to ten younger nobles. Reformists, they called themselves. Modernizers.

Men and women who believed in Soren’s vision of an empire that looked forward instead of backward, that adapted instead of stagnated.

They were outnumbered badly, but their presence mattered. Symbols of change in a room drowning in tradition.

And at the head of the table, the three who would decide how this battle unfolded.

Soren sat in the emperor’s seat wearing full imperial regalia. Ice-blue robes embroidered with silver thread that caught light like frost on glass.

The crown of Nevareth rested on his blonde hair, not heavy, not ornate, just three bands of platinum twisted together and set with a single diamond that seemed to glow from within.

His face was carved from winter itself, expression giving nothing away. But his eyes, reader... his eyes were cold enough to freeze blood in veins. Ready for war.

To his left, Eris occupied the position of future empress. The seat had been empty for years, dust gathering on cushions no one dared sit upon. But she filled it now as though it had been made for her.

She wore deep crimson that seemed to burn against the chamber’s perpetual cold, black accents sharp as blade-edges, fire opals at throat and wrists catching light like captured flames.

Her hair was arranged with elegant simplicity, her face calm. Too calm. The kind of calm predators wore while deciding which prey to take first.

To his right, Vetra sat in the Regent’s chair wearing ice-white that matched the room itself. Her diamond crown caught every rainbow from the ceiling, scattering light like shattered promises.

Her expression was maternal, concerned, grieving for the losses they’d suffered yesterday. All lies.

All calculated. Reader, if you looked close enough, you could see the satisfaction lurking beneath the performance.

This was her stage, her moment, and she intended to direct every scene.

The chamber fell silent as death when Soren raised one hand.

"This council convenes," his voice carried across the space without strain, "to address yesterday’s attack on our capital. Commander Ryse—your report."

Ryse stepped forward, unrolling a scroll with military precision. His voice came out crisp, emotionless, just facts presented without embellishment or interpretation.

But oh, reader, the facts were horror enough.

"Two hundred and twenty-four confirmed dead."

The words landed like stones in still water, ripples of silence spreading outward. Someone in the gallery gasped, the sound loud in the sudden quiet.

"Fourty now missing, presumed dead in areas where remains could not be recovered."

More gasps now. Whispers starting, spreading like infection through the crowd.

"Two hundred eight wounded. Fifty-three in critical condition, survival uncertain."

The numbers stopped being abstract. They became faces, families, futures erased in fire and blood and demon claws.

The nobles who’d come ready for political theater found themselves confronting actual tragedy instead.

"Structural damage assessment," Ryse continued, voice steady as stone. "Outer district completely destroyed. Seventy buildings classified as total loss. Market square obliterated, nothing salvageable. Three residential blocks burned to foundation. Cathedral of Minor Ice collapsed from heat damage to support structures."

Murmurs spread through the chamber now, through the gallery above. Horror settling in like cold seeping through clothing. This wasn’t just an attack. This was devastation.

"Current crisis status," and here, reader, Ryse’s voice finally cracked slightly. Just a hairline fracture in his professional composure.

"Citizens terrified. Approximately two thousand fled to inner districts overnight. Refugee crisis developing. Food distribution systems disrupted. Water infrastructure damaged in affected areas. Full blizzard approaches in three weeks. Without proper shelter, casualties from cold will exceed yesterday’s death toll."

He paused, looking directly at Soren. The weight of what came next was visible In his expression.

"Citizens are demanding answers, Your Majesty. Demanding protection. Demanding someone be held responsible for what happened to their families."

Someone to blame. Someone to punish. Someone’s blood to pay for their losses.

The message was clear as ice crystal.

Soren stood slowly, drawing every eye in the chamber. When he spoke, his voice carried the absolute authority of someone born to rule, trained from childhood to command not just armies but nations.

"Thank you, Commander." He let the words settle, then continued. "The empire grieves with those who lost loved ones yesterday. We will provide all possible aid... shelter, food, medical care, whatever is needed. No citizen will face winter without protection."

He paused, meeting the eyes of every noble in turn. Making sure they understood what came next.

"We will also find those responsible for this attack." Weight on that word, responsible, like ice cracking under pressure. "And we will deliver justice. Swift and complete."

His expression promised violence wrapped in legal proceedings, retribution dressed in imperial authority.

Reader, the battle lines were drawn.

Now came the question of who would draw first blood.