As the first light of dawn filtered through the stone walls of the mansion, the whispers that had echoed throughout the night still seemed to linger in the air. In some corners, hushed debates continued, deep sighs reverberated down the long corridors, and the weight of difficult decisions hung over the atmosphere of the entire council chamber.

  Despite this, no one was late.

  Every leader who stepped into the meeting hall carried the same solemnity on their face. Their eyes shone with determination; some walked in with their heads slightly bowed in deep contemplation. Everyone who entered the room understood that the decision to be made today would not only affect their own tribe but all of Rhazgord.

  Seated around the long stone table in the chamber were the tribal leaders. At the center of the room, a large brass brazier burned, its flames softly hissing as they rose toward the ceiling, occasionally sending out sparks that fizzled instantly upon touching the ground. Yet, no matter how hot the flames burned, a sharp coldness dominated the air.

  Among the tribal leaders, there was one person who did not belong there, yet was accepted as an exception—Corvus. Behind him stood the six commanders of the Tiamat Guardians, unwavering like statues. Only the tribal leaders would participate in the voting, but the Tiamat Guardians were present to maintain order.

  Sakhaar shattered the silence reigning over the hall with a single gesture.

  “I am commencing the vote.”

  There was no room for lengthy speeches or unnecessary debates. The rule was simple: Those who desired war would raise their hands, and the votes would be counted. There was no need for a secret ballot. After all, in Rhazgord, the strong guiding the weak was never considered wrong.

  And hands were raised. However, there was not even a need to count. Almost no one had raised their hand for war.

  Some leaders could not hide their surprise at this outcome. Whispering murmurs began among them; some faces tightened with anger, while others sighed in relief. However, Corvus had known this result all along.

  Storms were brewing in Rhazgord. Everyone was aware of it. No one was willing to enter an unnecessary war and risk losing their strength amidst this turmoil. And the Tiamat Guardians… They were wise enough not to take such a risk.

  Corvus’s gaze swept over the leaders seated around the table. Not a single tribe under the influence of the Tiamat Guardians had voted for war. The only thing that echoed in the chamber was the silent reverberation of a war that did not happen.

  “No matter the outcome of this vote, I have made a decision.”

  Sakhaar’s voice echoed through the high ceilings of the vast stone chamber. This was the only unexpected moment so far. In an instant, every gaze, including Corvus’s, turned to Sakhaar. Some faces reflected surprise, while others were visibly disturbed by Sakhaar making a decision on his own. Yet, some took his declaration with complete composure, watching him without any visible reaction.

  Sakhaar stood up, placing his hands firmly on the armrests of his throne as he carefully examined each individual in the room. His eyes burned like fire.

  “No matter the justification, Brihmond’s attack on Galir is a violation of our traditions! It is Rhazgord’s duty to punish the enemies of Rhazgord. Therefore, a warning will be sent to Brihmond, and the tribute collected from Brihmond’s merchants will be increased!”

  Sakhaar’s words created sharp tension in the hall. The leaders exchanged quick glances. Of course, there were those who wished to object—especially the tribal leaders who relied on trade with Brihmond. Yet, none dared to challenge this decision alone. Moreover, the leaders of the great tribes showed no signs of dissent. A silence, heavy like fog, settled over the room.

  After a few minutes of this silence, Sakhaar, concluding that no one would object, took a deep breath and turned his eyes to Corvus.

  “We will take a ten-minute recess. After that, the council will resume with all invited guests present. You may open the door.”

  Corvus silently acknowledged the command with a nod. As he unlocked the heavy iron doors, the faint creak of the hinges echoed through the hall. One by one, the leaders filed out.

  After the short recess, everyone returned to the chamber. But this time, it was not just the leaders—guests were present as well. However, Corvus was missing.

  At that very moment, as the council resumed, Corvus was ascending the steep cliffs of Rhaz Mountain with dozens of Tiamat Guardians. As he made his way toward the misty peaks, a resolute expression was etched onto his face. The wind howled through the gaps in his armor, but his steps remained firm and unwavering.

  Even though no decision for war had been made, agreements were reached on expanding the army and increasing the number of Sharazir warriors. Additionally, it was decided that Rhazgord’s borders would be more strictly guarded. To accomplish this, additional resources were allocated to the Iskats, who had been raised on horseback and were perfect for scouting the borders. As allies of the Tiamats, the Iskats would benefit greatly from these additional resources, making it a mutually beneficial arrangement.

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  As the sun set on the horizon, the meeting seemed to be drawing to a close. However, the most important topic had yet to be raised. A long pause hung in the chamber. The leaders and guests, sensing that something significant was yet to be revealed, waited in silent anticipation.

  Then, suddenly, the doors opened once more.

  Corvus entered with Tiamat Guardians, but at the center of their formation stood someone else. A frail figure draped in a pitch-black robe, barely able to walk, his body hunched from weakness. The guards surrounded him so closely that at first, most of the leaders had not even noticed his presence.

  But as Corvus and the guardians stepped aside, everyone realized who he was. Eyes widened, whispers rose.

  The man who had entered was one of the monks who had retreated into the depths of Rhaz Mountain’s sacred and shadowed caves, never to return. His emergence into the outside world could not be an ordinary occurrence.

  As the entire hall held its breath, the dark-robed monk moved forward with slow, deliberate steps. The Tiamat Guardians remained tightly positioned around him. His face, sculpted by the shadows of the caves, was pale and weary, yet the knowledge and power he carried in his eyes were more terrifying than anything else.

  Without waiting for Sakhaar’s permission, the monk began to speak.

  His voice trembled like echoes from beyond time—both dreadful and sacred. A breath, heavy and decayed, carried his words through the air, giving the chamber an eerie weight. In his eyes flickered a dim, reddish glow, unmistakably marking the Tiamat blood flowing through his veins.

  “They…” he whispered, his voice a hoarse and quivering murmur.

  “The enemies of the gods… are coming again!”

  His voice rang like the ominous tolling of funeral bells. As his words etched themselves into the ears of those present like a seal of prophecy, shadows seemed to seep from the walls and gather around him.

  “But this time, their thirst will not be quenched! Even if the land is soaked in blood, the sky will not call them back!”

  The image evoked in everyone’s mind by the monk’s mention of “they” was singular: colossal, grotesquely symmetrical, insect-like demons that seemed to have emerged from the nightmares of mortals. For years, one fact had been known: these horrifying beings would appear from nothingness and would not stop until they were either completely eradicated or until not a single living soul remained in the city they attacked.

  But now, from the monk’s trembling lips came a new terror. “The sky will not call them back!” he had said. What did that mean? Did they not always disappear once they had drunk their fill of blood? Or this time… had they come to stay?

  The monk’s hunched back quivered. His shoulders sagged under the weight of a deep fear. He ran his clenched fingers over his knees, fixed his gaze forward, and continued speaking.

  “This land will be their cradle… Their roots will spread here! Their bodies will rise here!” he groaned. His voice scattered into the dark corners of the room like a drifting wind.

  “And this time, they will not come in the twisted forms of monsters! They will come in the guise of the Devil!”

  Suddenly, he lifted his head, extending his frail and bony hand—so thin that his bones could be counted—toward Sakhaar. His dimming crimson eyes gleamed with the authority of a commander from the battlefields of ancient times. His finger, though trembling, was resolute; he was pointing at him. But was he pointing only at Sakhaar, or was he, through him, addressing all of Rhazgord? No one could tell.

  “The gods are mourning,” he whispered, his voice rising with an eerie echo as if from another world.

  “But not for those who have fallen! For those who have not yet fallen! They weep for those who still breathe! Be ready to return to the warm embrace of the gods! Be ready for the gods’ dirges! Be ready… for the fate written in blood!”

  And at that moment, the monk—whose body had withered away in the grasp of time, who had lived beyond the limits of his years—let out his last breath in a trembling sigh. His exhausted body slowly collapsed onto his knees. The crimson glow in his eyes was no more. His lips had sealed, his chest had stilled never to rise again.

  Corvus gently touched the monk’s wrist to check his pulse. The coldness of his skin whispered the inevitability of death. He took a deep breath and slowly nodded his head. The monk was dead. Corvus’ shoulders tensed, his face was swallowed by shadows.

  At that moment, the hall trembled first with a faint murmur, then erupted like a storm. Some had fallen to their knees, whispering prayers to the gods with tear-filled eyes. Others were arguing wildly, shouting what needed to be done. Some pounded their fists in fury against the table, while others ran their hands through their hair in despair. Rhazgord’s greatest warriors looked like children. The noise grew with every passing moment; fear, hope, and faith intertwined, turning into a cacophony that echoed off the stone walls of the hall.

  Yet Sakhaar was silent. His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath.

  The previous night, he had learned of the monks’ communication with the gods through the flames ignited atop Mount Rhaz. Those flames were a sacred sign. But the lighting of a second fire… That meant one among them would descend from the mountain, and at that moment, a deep fear had lodged itself in his heart. Even when he ordered Corvus to accompany the monk, he had been unable to shake off that fear.

  But now, as he learned the contents of the message, the terror coursing through his veins grew even stronger. He swallowed hard. His face was shrouded in shadows.

  Within the chaotic noise of the hall, all eyes suddenly turned to him. Questions were whispered through glances, helplessness spreading in waves from every body. Everyone awaited an answer from Sakhaar. But his mind was clouded, his lips parched. Even a brief moment of hesitation only amplified the tension in the room. The waiting turned into a growing fear among the people, gripped by the claws of uncertainty.

  At last, Sakhaar took a deep breath, his sharp features tightening. “The meeting is over,” he declared, his voice echoing.

  But instead of restoring order, these words only deepened the chaos. First in the heart of Sorbaj, then throughout all of Rhazgord, fear and uncertainty spread like rippling waves. For days, rituals were held; temples were adorned with talismans, sacrifices were offered, prayers rose to the heavens. But no matter how much they pleaded, no matter how much blood was spilled, the gods remained silent. The sky gave no answer, the wind whispered no prophecy.

  And as the people were drawn step by step into the darkness of divine silence, an ominous hush settled over Rhazgord.