All nobles who had received the summons were present.
Only the center table and the first rows around it were filled.
Time pressed forward.
The meeting would soon begin.
I glanced at Father.
He sat like a statue, no twitch in hand or face, red eyes fixed not on the hall but on the center table where words would carry weight.
"Let us begin."
The voice rolled across the hall.
My head turned toward it.
At the center table, a man in silver-grey robes rose.
A quill was stitched into the fabric of his mantle. His hair was white, his back straight, and his voice carried authority.
Grand Duke Silverquill.
His eyes swept the hall once.
"Reports from the west."
He set a bundle of sealed papers on the table.
"The Holy Union fractures further. Aviel blames Elos for the destruction of their Spire. Elos calls Aviel fanatics who staged their own martyrdom. Nerivane claims neutrality while doubling its tariffs. Riots in Marinthal grow worse."
'The Holy Union. The other human power on Aldaria, besides the Empire Elandor. Three factions under one banner. Aviel, who worships the Goddess of Life. Elos, clinging to the God of Death. And Nerivane, the Free Folk, who placed more importance on trade than religion. Together, they hold Aldaria's only access to the sea. Every port on the western coast lies under their rule.'
Murmurs rippled through the rows.
I watched their faces.
Nobles bent toward one another, whispering like crows on a branch.
I pressed my lips thin to hide the smile.
Fear made them predictable.
My gaze returned to Silverquill.
'Grand Duke Silverquill. Cousin to the Emperor. The crown's closest adviser. His family holds the strongest hand in politics. A man you cannot trust. He will sacrifice anything for an advantage.'
I smiled to myself.
'I like him.'
Silverquill raised a hand.
The hall stilled, and silence descended only to be broken by him.
"The Union is our lifeline to the sea. They hold the western ports. Their tariffs have already reduced our supply of imports. Should war break out, trade will collapse. The markets will follow. We can't look away."
He turned his head toward Grand Duke Valmontis and gave the smallest of nods.
Valmontis did not rise at once.
He waited, letting the murmurs circle, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
At last, his white mantle stirred as he stood.
The noise died.
With a single motion, he brushed his suit straight and spoke, his voice calm.
"When ports falter, trade halts. That is its nature. But when one route closes, another can be opened. Those who act swiftly seize it first. The Union's squabbles are tragic, yes. But sentiment won't keep an Empire alive. Either we prevent war, or we prepare new lines of commerce. Trade adapts, or it dies."
Valmontis sat down again, as if the words he spoke were already enough for the matter.
'Grand Duke Valmontis. The richest man in the Empire. His methods of trade are taught at the Imperial Academy. His sister married the Emperor. Wealth, influence, reach, yet never unjust. He never cuts deals that ruin others, yet never accepts a loss.'
Across the table, Duke Cornvale leaned forward after Valmontis spoke.
His broad frame filled a plain brown vest. Brown hair and a beard gave him a younger look, though his heavy hands told of the work he had done.
He gripped the table and pushed himself upright.
"If tension rises and war approaches, their citizens won't vanish. They will come to us as refugees. They come hungry, desperate, and begging for shelter."
Valmontis cut in.
"Distribution won't be the problem. Supply will. Do we have reserves for our armies? Enough for refugees on top of that?"
Cornvale didn't flinch at the interruption.
He sat back down, eyes fixed on Valmontis.
"For our citizens alone, reserves last five years. Add war and marching armies, and we have at most two years. That isn't enough to feed both the Empire and the refugees. We need more supplies."
I watched the way Cornvale turned the question back.
'Duke Cornvale. His family rules the fields. They feed half the Empire. A man who still walks his farms, dirt on his hands despite his title. He fears famine because he has seen hunger twist men. And he is right.'
Valmontis tapped a finger against the table, counting.
"I will handle the trade and buy food before war inflates the price."
Silverquill nodded faintly, his quill already scratching down notes.
The scribble of ink was the only sound until another person moved.
Duke Ironbright shifted in his chair.
He tugged his gloves tight, then spoke in a firm tone.
"Our mines already strain to fill the Imperial stores. If tension rises, borders and ports will close, and no foreign metal will come through. Our weapons will cost twice as much. No war waits for empty hands."
He leaned back again, his grey suit wrinkled at the edges. His dark hair was bound in a man's bun.
'Duke Ironbright. Their mines are the Empire's veins. Nearly endless, yet never enough in times of war. A proud man, steadfast. He wears his duty like a medal.'
Then rose Duke Magleos.
His robe shimmered faintly, runes laced into the threads.
He tapped his staff once against the floor.
Tap.
The sound was soft, yet the hall turned quiet.
He spoke, his voice sounded scholarly.
"I have received word. It concerns the Celestial Influence."
Gasps scattered across the benches.
I leaned forward.
'Duke Magleos. Master of magic research. His family owns the mage towers and the academies. He doesn't care for politics, only knowledge. But when he speaks, the wise listen.'
Magleos let silence linger, then continued.
"Noct, Ursol, and Chelon. The constellations will align at their peaks. A long winter comes. If war breaks, we won't lose soldiers to the sword, but to hunger and cold."
Whispers rippled through the hall.
Silverquill raised his hand, and silence returned.
His voice came sharp.
"Your source? How certain are you?"
Magleos brushed his fingers along his staff.
"One hundred percent. The Grand Star Reader himself had spoken. Winter will last at least four years."
The benches stirred.
Gasps and murmurs spread.
At the central table, silence weighed more heavily.
Even Silverquill lowered his head, deep in thought.
'Noct, Ursol, and Chelon align...I don't know much, but I think I heard that the seasons are controlled by celestial mana flows between the twelve constellations. If the Grand Star Reader of the Xhantari speaks…then it's the truth. A long winter is coming.'
Thud.
My thoughts snapped.
Duke Warpole had risen, palm slamming flat against the table.
His armor gleamed under the light as his voice cut through the hall.
"We must strike first! If a long winter comes and we are unprepared, tens of thousands will die. We need supplies, and for that we need our own port—a direct way to the sea. If war breaks, all three fronts will be locked, and Nerivane's trade will halt. Better to take a whole port for ourselves and be independent than starve."
The hall stirred.
Some nobles nodded eagerly.
Others stiffened in their seats.
'Duke Warpole. A warrior. His family forges the finest weapons, their legacy carved from battles. He sees every problem as an enemy line to shatter. Strong…but reckless—dangerous.'
His words rang in my mind.
'War…seize the coast before the Union can act. Turn famine into conquest. Is this it?'
My gaze flicked sideways—toward Father.
He sat motionless.
Hands folded. Eyes steady on Warpole, waiting.
Silverquill answered calmly.
"And invite the wrath of three fronts at once? Aviel, Elos, Nerivane. The Holy Union may be fractured now, but nothing unites enemies faster than a common foe."
The silence that followed pressed.
Warpole's jaw locked, but he didn't answer.
Then Father moved.
He rose, slow and deliberate, and the hall hushed before he spoke.
"To strike first is folly. To ignore is worse. We must prepare, not provoke. Expand our garrisons. Double our reserves. War will come, and we will watch them bleed. And when the moment presents itself, then we strike. Whether as a third force or as allies, it will be on our terms."
Every head turned.
Some frowned, others nodded, but none dismissed his words.
Silverquill nodded his head.
"Marquis Ashspire speaks reason."
Ripples spread.
Small nods.
Small victories.
Warpole lowered himself back into his seat, armor clanging.
His voice came low.
"Reason, perhaps. But opportunity does not wait."
'Opportunity.'
The word cut, sharper than any blade.
Thud.
Silverquill's palm struck the table.
"Enough. The Marquis is right. The Empire won't throw itself headfirst into war in the midst of winter. We stock supplies. We expand our armies. We watch. When opportunity arises, then we decide."
Nods circled the chamber in agreement.
Silverquill's voice rang clear through the hall.
"The Dukes will remain. The rest are dismissed."
The benches broke into murmurs.
Boots scraped. Cloaks rustled.
Nobles rose and walked toward the door.
Father stood, his stride steady as he left the chamber, unbothered by the glances that followed.
I followed a pace behind.
His silence was heavy.
He had spoken when it mattered, and they had listened.
My gaze swept the hall one last time as we passed through the wide doors.
The whispers told me enough.
'The Ashspires are still strong.'
My own thoughts burned brighter than the rest.
'And we will grow even stronger.'