The atmosphere in the meeting room was still tense, even though Amaterasu often had disagreements with her brother, Susanoo, she still cared about him.

  “In my opinion,” Leroy said evenly, “the swift solution offered by Cygnus and Bjorn is effective. It shows the people of the All-Realm that the Council can still act decisively when the time demands it.”

  Starmist nodded, her azure gaze softening. “The All-Realm will never forget Susanoo’s valor in the old war. But perhaps it is best for him to rest and reflect on himself.”

  Amaterasu’s fury dimmed, if only slightly. Few could temper the Fire Goddess when her wrath ignited, in this room, only Leroy and Starmist had ever managed it.

  “Fine,” she said at last, though her tone still burned. “But why was it Cygnus who declared this? The Vanguard is under Lucretius command, not his.”

  The knight in question lifted his head. His face, pale and unreadable, betrayed no anger. “I… I just knew the incident a day ago.” His words fell flat, expressionless, leaving Amaterasu unsatisfied, unable to pierce the riddle that was Lucretius.

  “Amaterasu,” Cygnus cut in, his voice calm but edged with authority, “you swore, you would bear responsibility for your brother action. My information came from the Cryptics. It left me no choice but to act quickly.”

  The goddess leaned back in her chair, exhaling a long breath. The fire in her eyes flickered but did not vanish. She knew his logic was sound, and worse—she knew part of the fault lay with herself. To argue further with the sorcerer supreme would be very exhausting.

  “Fine,” she muttered at last. Then her gaze snapped toward Bjorn, sharp as a blade. “But why release the statement so carelessly? Some of those words cornered my faction directly. Do you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  The massive professor lifted his head slowly, lids heavy, his voice flat with fatigue. “Oh, here we go again…” It was all he managed before striking a match to light his cigar.

  Before the smoke touched his lips, a spark flicked from Amaterasu’s hand. Flames consumed the cigar in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but ash and a curl of blackened paper between his fingers.

  Bjorn stared at it for a moment, sighed, then raised his eyes to her blazing stare. His mouth twitched into something between defiance and resignation.

  “Please, kill me,” he said.

  For a heartbeat the chamber froze. Then, unexpectedly, a ripple of strained amusement flickered at the edges of the tension.

  Leroy pressed his hand to his temple, rubbing his brow as if trying to knead the chaos into order. He had to keep the Council balanced—between fire and reason, fatigue and fury. One wrong word, and the chamber could erupt into something none of them could control.

  Leroy try to steadying the table. His voice cut through the lingering sparks of tension.

  “Here is what we will do. First, Bjorn—meet with the scriptwriter responsible for that article. Dismiss him, replace him, discipline him—your choice. But under no circumstance will he publish such extreme, faction-targeting slander again. The Council cannot afford another spark to ignite resentment among the realms.”

  Bjorn grunted, half awake, but gave a lazy nod.

  “Second,” Leroy continued, “Lucretius, you will write a personal decree. Susanoo will be suspended from the Vanguard for three months and disqualified from the Colosseum. The Extraterrestrial faction will have no champion this year.”

  Lucretius inclined his head with his usual unreadable calm, already calculating the words.

  “As for Cygnus and myself,” Leroy went on, “we will prepare for a public trial once the suspension ends. A trial the people will see. And until then—Susanoo is confined to Takamagahara under the watch of the Shogun. He does not leave. Not for war, not for ceremony, not even as an honored guest. The order will stand.”

  His tone was iron. A leader’s tone. For the first time that session, the Council felt the weight of his dominance—decision, not debate.

  Amaterasu’s voice broke the silence. “And if the court declares him guilty? Prison would stain not only my faction’s name, but the Council’s as well.”

  Cygnus leaned back, calm as always. “Then it will be theater. A show of discipline, nothing more. The people must believe we act firmly, even if the reality is… more merciful.”

  Starmist had said little since the debate began. Her head had been bowed, gaze hidden. But at Leroy’s words—“reflection must remain, but the public needs a harsher truth”—she lifted her eyes, a small smile ghosting her lips. It was enough.

  Amaterasu exhaled slowly, tension leaving her like smoke from quenched fire. She knew now her faction’s honor was intact.

  “Fortunate, then,” Bjorn muttered around his newly lit cigar, “that the group he killed was a criminal. If it had been an innocent… we’d all doom.”

  This time, Amaterasu did not strike the cigar from his hand.

  “Suspension will stand as the court’s verdict,” Cygnus added. “I’ll see to it the Cryptics file a report of grievance on behalf of your faction. Let the public believe justice is balanced.”

  And just like that, the matter of Susanoo was sealed—at least for now.

  The Council shifted toward the next agenda, a report from the Unus Bank.

  But Bjorn interrupted with a grunt, pointing his thumb at an empty chair. “Wait. Where’s the boy? Why hasn’t Elysius shown his face today?”

  Starmist answered quietly, “He said he had urgent business.”

  Bjorn snorted. “Urgent? What kind of business outranks this room?”

  “I asked him,” Starmist admitted, “but he did not reply.”

  Bjorn’s heavy brow furrowed, suspicion mixing with disdain. “Tch. What is wrong with the young kids these days…”

  Leroy frowned. He, too, had sent transmissions—no answer. Across the table, Cygnus finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

  “He is hiding something.”

  The words lingered, unchallenged, uncomfortably true. Yet the others turned the page of discussion, unwilling—perhaps afraid—to dig deeper.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Leroy, I’ve had word from Remini and Raidbones—the king is implicated,” Cygnus said, folding his hands around his teacup. “Cryptic member I sent after them have validated the claim.”

  The table fell quiet. All eyes swung to Cygnus, the air thick with the weight of what that accusation meant.

  “Do we strike at the kingdom, or will you handle it your way?” Leroy asked, deliberate. His voice cut through the silence and made the chamber listen.

  “It’s a simple problem, but he must not know we know,” Cygnus answered, sipping. “Invite him to the Colosseum as an honored guest. I will speak to him there.”

  Amaterasu’s smile was a flash of teeth and heat. “Still thinking of the little kingdom, Master Cygnus?” she teased, though her grin held a barb.

  “A small wound left to fester becomes a great wound,” Cygnus replied, meeting her gaze. “I will not let this swell into a crisis.”

  Bjorn, tinkering absently with a coil of metal, added, “Remember, commonfolk outnumber us a hundred thousand to one. If they ever truly unite, the Council will be in trouble.”

  “Do you think they could defeat us?” Lucretius asked, voice flat, curiosity thin as a razor.

  “I didn’t say defeat,” Bjorn snapped, irritation flaring. “I said we’d be in trouble—rebellions, the sort of thing that takes councils and kingdoms years to settle.” His tone rose, then dropped back into weary derision. Lucretius said nothing, which only stoked Bjorn’s impatience further. “You’ve been a general since the Dark Ages, are you asking me for strategy now, or are you just casting about?”

  Amaterasu’s laugh was soft and sour. “You get excited when war’s the topic, don’t you?”

  “I do not see an age of commonfolk will rise again,” Cygnus said evenly. “Not like before.”

  “If there is a rebellion, it must be cut at the root,” Lucretius declared. “We show strength and end it.”

  “Assume the full might of the Abyss falls upon fifteen northern kingdoms of commonfolk,” Bjorn mused, eyes distant as he toyed with a tiny mechanism. “You’d have them crushed before a year ended.”

  “And what then?” Cygnus asked. He leaned forward, voice calm and surgical. “What meaning have our victories if there are no people left to rule? Even a shepherd needs sheep to be a shepherd.”

  The aphorism landed in the room like a dropped blade. Conversation shifted, not absent of the iron will to control, but softened by the grim calculus of governance: power without populace is an empty throne. Leroy listened, counting the fractures between them—practical brutality on one side, the pragmatic cruelty of preservation on the other.

  The council moved on, but the accusation against the king and Bjorn’s warning lingered like smoke. Leroy felt the ember of unease warm his palm—another tinder to be tended.

  Starmist and Leroy exchanged a glance—bemused, almost weary at how far the discussion had strayed.

  “Wait,” Starmist said firmly, her voice carrying calm authority. “Why are we even discussing this?”

  “Because, my dear Starmist,” Bjorn drawled with a crooked grin, “it was our general from the Abyss who decided to set us on that conversation.”

  Lucretius said nothing, his silence as heavy as a closed tomb.

  Leroy leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Cygnus, your spies, have they found similar issues in other kingdoms?”

  Before the sorcerer could respond, Starmist answered first, her tone quiet but sure. “I thought this things exists everywhere. Opposition cannot truly destroyed.”

  “Starmist speaks truth,” Cygnus added smoothly. “As long as it does not threaten the Council’s order, such anomalies must be left to burn themselves out.”

  “Anomalies,” Amaterasu murmured, fire flickering in her eyes. “Like District Four or Downland?”

  “Yes… something like that,” Cygnus replied at last, refilling his porcelain cup with steaming herbal brew. The fragrance could not mask the bitter truth in his voice.

  Leroy shifted through the stack of notes before him, marked and underlined in his own hand. He spoke without looking up. “Bjorn—I want you to prepare a set of releases for Cognisource. Certain information must be managed carefully.”

  Cognisource: the only media directly controlled by the central Council, a network engineered by the Cogworks faction. Each kingdom had its own papers, its own propaganda, but Cognisource carried a singular authority—its words rippled across the All-Realm, binding realms in a shared narrative of Council power.

  “Will do,” Bjorn sighed, fishing a small contraption from his satchel. It looked like a miniature typewriter, barely the size of a fist, gears whirring faintly. He thumbed a brass lever at its side; the device clicked alive, tiny keys hovering, ready to record.

  “Speak, then. This little machine will write every word,” Bjorn muttered. He wound the side crank, the machine humming as it began to transcribe the council chamber’s voices onto a strip of thin parchment.

  The sound of its clattering keys was faint, but in the stillness of the chamber, it was sharp as knives.

  The first decree for Cognisource was agreed upon: the seventh Grand Event of the Factions, the Colosseum battles. Every duel would proceed as planned—except Starfall versus Susanoo. The official reason: the Thunder God had “urgent affairs” elsewhere. The truth—that Susanoo was serving a suspension imposed by the Council—was buried to preserve his image and, more importantly, the Council’s own.

  The second article concerned intergalactic trade. A new temporary regulation would be introduced, presented as a stabilizing measure for global balance.

  The rest of the paper would be filled with easier fare—council achievements, progress reports, reconstruction of the eastern territories. A narrative of strength, stability, and benevolence.

  Bjorn flicked the switch on his little machine. The automatic keys stilled, the strip of parchment curling like a sealed fate.

  “I’ve received reports from the Tallymasters,” Leroy said, rifling through thick stacks of financial records. His voice was flat, discomfort evident. “Our revenues have nearly doubled this cycle. Almost twice what we held before.”

  He scowled at the numbers—he was a soldier, not an accountant. Yet among them, when the council weighed who should speak for law and war, there was never doubt: Lucretius authority was unchallenged.

  “That is excellent,” Amaterasu said, calmer now than she had been earlier, her anger dulled into pragmatism. “So—what more should we add?”

  “I need more funding for research,” Bjorn said bluntly. “We intend to establish another self-sustaining city.”

  Amaterasu’s eyes narrowed. “Why not rebuild the abandoned ones your faction already holds? What use is expansion while your own lands rot?”

  For once, Bjorn faltered, chewing on the question with no quick retort.

  “Then let us expand the military,” Lucretius interjected, voice cold and certain.

  “Agreed,” Amaterasu agreed at once. “The population grows, we will need greater forces to contain them.”

  Leroy cut across, firm. “No. We are not at war. I think military expansion must wait.” He turned his eyes toward the only one who had not spoken. “Starmist. I imagine you have your own view?”

  For a moment, silence. Then Starmist lifted her chin, her azure gaze meeting them all.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I have something to present.”

  Every eye in the chamber turned. Rarely did Starmist take the floor as a catalyst. And that rarity made the moment heavy, electric—the kind of silence that carried the promise of revelation.

  After years spent traveling the All-Realm, tending to shattered lands and scattered peoples, Starmist finally spoke her vision. She proposed a program of loans and development for the smaller kingdoms—funds directed not just toward trade, but toward rebuilding livelihoods, giving the commonfolk the means for honest work.

  Since the war’s end, Unus Bank had focused only on intergalactic commerce and on empowering kingdoms fortunate enough to sit upon the Silver Chair. The rest, the poorer realms had languished in silence.

  Her words gave the chamber pause. Then the door opened.

  Elysius slipped inside, late, breathless, and pale with fatigue. Whatever trial had kept him away weighed heavily, but none asked. Not now. The council was already deep in its deliberations.

  “Sit, boy. You’ll answer for your attitude action later,” Bjorn grunted, jabbing a thumb at the empty chair.

  Elysius obeyed, sinking into his seat. The discussion resumed without delay.

  “I think the time has come,” Cygnus mused, hand on his chin.

  “Agreed,” Leroy said, pressing the matter. “Do the rest of you concur?”

  Lucretius gave only a low murmur, but it was assent. Cygnus, Amaterasu, and Bjorn voiced their agreement without quarrel.

  “Then we are of one voice,” Leroy concluded.

  Starmist smiled faintly, her face softening, almost luminous in the dim council light. “I’m glad. All of you agree with this. Thank you.”

  “If Lady Star asks it, we oblige,” Lucretius muttered.

  Bjorn barked a laugh and clapped him on the back. “Bah...turns out your tongue isn't that stiff, huh?.”

  Even Amaterasu smirked, and for a moment the chamber was filled with low laughter.

  “One month after the Colosseum,” Cygnus said, “prepare for Silver Chair. You’ll have time to prepare.” He looked directly at Leroy.

  “May I attend as well?” Elysius asked, voice uncertain but eager.

  “Yes,” Leroy said, after a pause. “If you can spare the time.”

  “You must learn, Elysius,” Starmist said gently. “One day, you will lead this table when we are retired.”

  “Though I doubt the Sorcerer Supreme will ever retire,” Amaterasu quipped, her lips curling.

  The chamber fell silent, only for Cygnus to laugh softly into his teacup.

  The meeting was rested for several hours. Cygnus return into his temple. Lucretius remained, brooding in the stillness. Elysius was tasked with sorting the next session’s briefs.

  But Leroy, Starmist, Amaterasu, and Bjorn chose to walk into District One, to show themselves among the commonfolk.