The wheels of the steampunk carriage screeched as it rolled through the cobbled roads of Neruga, the Western Kingdom iron. Pistons hissed, gears clicked like the heartbeat of a living machine, and the faint shimmer of brass reflected the sun’s dying light.

  Inside, two figures sat in contrast, one surrounded by the scent of ink and paper, the other by smoke and alcohol.

  Bjorn leaned back, exhaling a slow, grey plume through the carriage window. “Finally,” he muttered, lips curling into a smirk, “the most boring moment of the year… and yet, my favorite.”

  Across from him, Leroy barely looked up from his book. His eyes traced the lines of text with surgical precision, ever the planner. The Professor of Plagues did not indulge in small talk easily.

  “I know why you like it, Bjorn,” Leroy replied, voice steady, unhurried. “It’s not the politics. It’s the intimidation. You enjoy watching kings squirm.”

  Bjorn chuckled—low, grating, and genuine. “Can you blame me? In the Council, we’ve got Amaterasu, Cygnus, and you—always there to argue or restrain me. But here…” He gestured vaguely. “…here, we are the apex predators.”

  Leroy didn’t answer. The sound of pages turning was his only reply.

  The carriage rattled past rows of commonfolk who had gathered near the palace gates. Children waved, their faces smeared with soot, their laughter rising above the whirring engines. Bjorn waved back, tossing a few small trinkets—tiny clockwork birds and brass pendants, each engraved with the Cogworks sigil. The crowd cheered as the gifts caught the sunlight like sparks.

  “Two days ago, Amaterasu was yelling at me through the transmitter,” Bjorn said, resting his head against the glass. “Apparently she’s losing patience with Susanoo. And the Shogun still hasn’t returned.”

  Leroy’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Perhaps adversity will strengthen their bond again.”

  “Ha! Spoken like from someone who doesn’t deal with family,” Bjorn snorted.

  The carriage slowed as the palace of Neruga came into view—a fortress of bronze-steel and marble, its towers breathing steam like dormant dragons.

  Waiting at the grand steps was King Vilion, robed in dark velvet trimmed with copper filigree. His hands were calloused—unusual for a monarch—and his eyes sharp with the alertness of a man who had built his own throne.

  “Welcome, honored lords,” he said, bowing slightly as the carriage door opened. “Are you two the only council members this year? Where is Lady Starmist?”

  Leroy closed his book and descended the steps with a small nod. “We thank you for the welcome, Your Grace. Lady Starmist could not attend this year. Our youngest member will represent her.”

  Vilion raised an eyebrow. “You mean… Lord Elysius?”

  Bjorn flicked away the last of his cigarette and stepped forward, grin widening. “Aye. The boy wonder himself. He’ll arrive tomorrow, once the talks truly begin.”

  “Ah,” the king chuckled, though there was a trace of disappointment in his tone. “We had prepared a selection of sweet delicacies for Lady Starmist. Seems they’ll have to wait for another year.”

  “Our apologies, Your Grace,” Leroy said. “Circumstances changed quickly. We kindly forget and did not have time to send notice.”

  “No problem,” Vilion replied, gesturing for his attendants to stand down. “The Silver Chair welcomes its Council. The halls of Neruga are yours.”

  He turned to his guards. “Do not burden the Green Wraith with luggage,” he ordered. “Let him walk as he pleases.”

  The soldiers hesitated for a moment, recognizing the title—a name whispered in fear more than respect. Leroy, the Green Wraith, gave no reaction. He simply nodded and continued toward the grand gates.

  “Think nothing of it, Lord Leroy,” said King Vilion, his tone both humble and proud. “It is an honor for my kingdom to host the Silver Chair this year.”

  He extended his hand, inviting the two Council members into the heart of his palace.

  The grand corridor unfolded before them like the spine of a dragon—vast, radiant, and lined with windows that poured pale light across the floor. Pillars of ivory and bronze stood shoulder to shoulder, their ridges traced with veins of gold. Between them hung paintings from a bygone age—heroes, monarchs, and superhumans from commonfolk's golden centuries, immortalized in the brushstrokes of reverence and longing.

  Bjorn’s heavy boots echoed against the polished floor. His eyes caught on a particular painting—a knight in black armor, astride a pale horse, banner tattered and eyes hollow beneath his helm. The resemblance to Lucretius was uncanny, but Bjorn merely grunted and walked on. “History’s full of ghosts,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Your Grace,” Leroy spoke, his calm voice rippling through the vaulted hall. “Have Lord Star, Mr. Grave, or Master Thaddeus arrived?”

  Vilion shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Not yet, my lords. As usual, you are the first to arrive.”

  Bjorn cracked open a small tin canister with a hiss. The smell of spiced alcohol filled the air. “Good,” he said, tilting his head back to drink. “That means I’ve got time to rot in peace before the show begins.”

  The king gave a short laugh, though his eyes flickered nervously toward the canister. “Professor Bjorn, if I may… about your faction’s leader…” His voice lowered, hesitant, as if afraid the walls might listen.

  Bjorn barked a laugh. “Too busy. Too indifferent. Same as always. The man barely remembers he has a seat in here.”

  Leroy adjusted the strap of his satchel and added quietly, “The Shogun hasn’t sent word either. I assume he’ll be absent again this year.”

  Bjorn waved his drink lazily. “And the Metal Gods won’t attend. They’re waist-deep in some mess—something about a new mining front opening in the Abyss.”

  Vilion nodded, as if already expecting the answer. “At least fifteen kings and vanguards have arrived. Most have been waiting two days for the Council’s blessing.”

  “Fifteen?” Bjorn arched an eyebrow. “Not bad. Tell me, who did you nominate and who’s Lucretius sending this time?”

  Leroy tapped a finger against his temple, counting off in a murmur. “Sigurd, D’Hertz, Gruk, Druganda… and Raidbones, I believe. They’re traveling with Grave.”

  Bjorn let out a low whistle. “A lean crowd this year. Fewer egos to bruise."

  He clapped a massive hand on the king’s shoulder, the gesture half-friendly, half-threatening. “Relax, Your Grace. With so few superhumans present, perhaps your nerves won’t be shredded by day two.”

  Vilion chuckled awkwardly, his smile trembling like thin glass. “Ah, yes. I hope so.”

  Bjorn’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Now—tell me, do you have a garden? A courtyard? Anything open to the air?”

  “The rear courtyard faces the sea cliffs,” said King Vilion, inclining his head slightly. “You may rest there, Professor Bjorn. The air is clearer, and few will disturb you.”

  Bjorn gave a brief nod of approval, while Leroy smile politely. With the king’s leave, the two council members took their path toward the western wing. Behind them, attendants carried their belongings to the guest chambers prepared for them, though both men seemed unconcerned where they would sleep.

  The hallways were long and lined with sigils carved into the white-gold marble—markings of kingdoms that once stood beside Neruga, now nothing more than echoes. As they walked, the corridors passed rows of sealed chambers, each bearing a nameplate of commonfolk king members. A few doors, however, were open, the faint hum of conversation betraying that some rulers had already arrived.

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  At the end of the hall, a door of brass and carved bone opened to the light.

  The two stepped into the open air. The roar of the ocean greeted them—the rhythmic thunder of waves striking the cliffs far below. The salt wind rolled in, carrying with it the cries of gulls and the faint metallic tang of the sea. Before them stretched a terrace of pale stone and weathered marble, decorated with statues standing solemn against the horizon.

  Each sculpture was a tribute to an age long past: knight clad in ancient plate, sorcerer caught in the gesture of casting, and even figures robed like gods of old. The artistry was raw and reverent, as if each chisel mark tried to capture the last breath of a fading legend.

  Bjorn sat upon a stone bench facing the sea, the machinery of his coat hissing quietly as he leaned back. Leroy stood at the balcony, gloved hands resting on the rail as he gazed toward the sunlit expanse.

  “This kingdom,” Bjorn said after a moment, his voice low, thoughtful, “must have been close to the superhuman factions once.” His gaze lingered on a statue of a hooded figure, its marble robes flowing as if caught mid-motion by the wind.

  Leroy nodded slightly. “Sorcerers, Elementalists, the Abyss… they’ve existed longer than most kingdoms. It wouldn’t surprise me if Neruga’s foundation was touched by their hands.”

  Bjorn smirked. “Think that statue there’s Cygnus, back when he still had young?”

  Leroy let out a quiet laugh—rare, soft, fleeting. “You’d have to ask him. Though I doubt he’d appreciate the comparison.”

  Their moment of calm was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out across the terrace.

  “Professor!”

  They turned as three figures approached—Sigurd at the front, followed by D’Hertz and Druganda. The Vanguard trio walked briskly, the sunlight catching on the pale silver of their travel cloaks. Unlike the spectacle of the Colosseum, they came in restrained garb: white-silver mantles drawn close, their faction emblems gleaming faintly on their chests.

  Sigurd’s pin bore three interlocking bronze and silver cogs—each can turning minutely with clockwork precision, a marvel of miniature engineering that represented the Cogworks Faction: ingenuity, precision, and relentless progress. D’Hertz’s was same as Leroy’s faction.

  Both Bjorn and Leroy wore their factional emblems beneath a greater symbol pinned at their collars—the Council Seal: a gold disk engraved with an arrow piercing through storm clouds from above.

  Bjorn exhaled heavily, waving a hand dismissively. “What’s this, a parade? Can’t a man enjoy a quiet moment without his subordinates marching in?”

  “We’ve been wandering this damn palace since yesterday,” Sigurd muttered, arms crossed and tone dripping with challenge. “You’d think the Council would at least let us do something instead of pacing the halls.”

  Bjorn turned his head lazily, a cruel half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Oh, spare me your whining, Sigurd. Didn’t expect to be scolded by a man who lost to a lion.”

  Sigurd’s face flushed with anger. “Say that again, old man—”

  But before the argument could flare, Druganda laid his hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, the motion calm but firm, like a stone pressing down on a spark. “Let it go. We’re not here for another brawl.”

  The wind carried the sound of waves crashing below the cliffs.

  D’Hertz’s voice broke the silence. “I saw the Abyss carriage entering the gates just now. Black horses, sigils of the deep. They’ve arrived.”

  Druganda straightened, the silver of his cloak glinting faintly. “And Lady Starmist? Has she finally come?”

  Leroy shook his head. “No. She’s unable to attend this year. Elysius will take her place.”

  Sigurd blinked, lowering his hood slightly. “You’re serious? That boy? You’re bringing him into the Silver Chair?”

  Bjorn, without looking up, struck a match. The flame danced, reflected in his mechanical eye as he lit a cigar. He pointed it toward Sigurd like a weapon. “You doubt our judgment?”

  The air between them thickened—an invisible weight pressing against the sea breeze. Bjorn’s grin was sharp, dangerous. But Sigurd, recognizing the line he’d just crossed, simply exhaled through his nose and looked away.

  D’Hertz, eager to divert the tension, turned to the view of the city. “Professor, I noticed something curious on my way here. The palace’s machinery—the turbines and steam conduits—they look like Cogworks designs.”

  Bjorn exhaled a plume of smoke, the wind tearing it away into mist. “That’s because they are. Neruga’s been working with us for eight year now.”

  “Besides,” Leroy added calmly, eyes still on the horizon. “Neruga’s one of the few kingdoms with active ties to nearly every faction—Elementalist, Cogworks, Weapon Masters, even the Abyss. Everyone… except the Celestial.”

  That name fell like a shadow over the group.

  “Celestial…” Druganda said slowly. “So that’s why you’re bringing Elysius? To introduce him into All Realm politics?”

  Leroy nodded, just once. “Observation suits you, Druganda. Yes. If Elysius can represent his faction well, it might be the first step in reestablishing contact with the Celestial Domain.”

  D’Hertz stroked his chin, his tone turning almost amused. “Celestials returning to the world of men… now that would be something worth watching.”

  Bjorn snorted softly. “Or burning. Depends which side of the story you’re on.”

  For a moment, all five of them fell silent. The sea breeze swept across the terrace, cool and salt-scented. Above them, the sky stretched vast and blue, clouds drifting lazily like forgotten titans in slumber.

  They stood there, staring upward—not in prayer, not in awe, but in contemplation. The thought of that mythic faction—those who lived among the stars—descending once more upon the mortal plane stirred both longing and dread.

  “Imagine,” Sigurd murmured, “if they did come back.”

  A distant rumble echoed from the front courtyard—steel wheels against stone. The sound of approaching hooves broke the stillness of the cliffs.

  A procession rolled through the palace gates. The Abyss insignia glinted on the lacquered black panels, the horses’ manes braided with strands of dark silver. The air seemed to dim around them, as if the light itself hesitated to touch their path.

  The door of the carriage opened with a soft creak.

  Mr. Graves stepped down first—tall, gaunt, draped in a coat of layered leather and pale steel. His mask, carved with a neutral expression, reflected nothing. Behind him followed Raidbones. Gruk, broad and grim, standing at the gate in silent vigil.

  “Gruk,” Raidbones greeted, his voice deep and rough as gravel, “we meet again.”

  “How are you, my brother who can’t stand the cold?”

  The deep, rumbling voice rolled across the courtyard like an avalanche. A massive figure—its fur white as frost, its breath a cloud of vapor. The Yeti, greeted with a grin full of sharp, ivory teeth.

  Raidbones laughed at the jab, his skeletal tattoos twisting with the motion. “Still alive, at least. I’ll take that as a victory.”

  Mr. Graves, silent as always, had already entered the palace, leaving the two Vanguard warriors facing each other at the gate.

  “You waited for me?” Raidbones asked, smirking.

  Gruk snorted. “Waited? Don’t flatter yourself. I was guarding the gate, not the loudmouth who takes too long to arrive.”

  Before Raidbones could retort, the air before them shimmered—rippling like sunlight across water. Then, without warning, a golden portal tore itself open in midair.

  From its glow stepped a man dressed in sharp crimson and shadow. Thaddeus Clyde, Noble Wizard of the Tabula Oculi, the Table of Oculus—one of the most renowned noble sorcerers of the Northen Realms. His black high-top hat tilted ever so slightly as he adjusted his gloves, the polished violet fabric gleaming under the light. His cane—a twisted length of jati wood etched with golden runes—clicked softly against the stone with each measured step.

  His brown curls fell just to the nape of his neck, and his beard was trimmed so finely it could have been drawn with a ruler.

  “Master Gruk… General Raidbones,” he greeted warmly, voice like honey laced with steel. “It’s been far too long.”

  “Master Thaddeus,” both warriors answered.

  “Fortunate indeed,” Thaddeus continued, “that the world still clings to a harmony. Without it, this council would not exist.”

  Gruk inclined his massive head. “Peace holds only because balance still endures, Master Thaddeus.”

  The sorcerer’s smile widened faintly. “Precisely, master. Two sides in eternal tension, each completing the other. Without shadow, no light; without decay, no rebirth.”

  Raidbones frowned, tilting his head. “You always talk like a prophecy wrapped in riddles, sorcerer.”

  Thaddeus chuckled softly. “That’s because, General, the truth often refuses to speak plainly.”

  With that, the three entered the palace together, their steps echoing across the grand marble hall.

  Elsewhere, in the western terrace, Sigurd’s wrist transmitter crackled faintly. He turned the dial, listening to the faint hum of the relay before looking up at Bjorn and Leroy.

  “Mr. Graves and Thaddeus Clyde have arrived,” he reported. “Also, five human kings have checked in at the guest wing.”

  Bjorn leaned back in his chair, the metal frame creaking under his weight. “So the board’s almost full. Only one piece missing.”

  “Lord Star,” Leroy murmured, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

  Bjorn nodded, smirking. “Yeah. The Extraterrestrials never fail to the last entrance.”

  Sigurd, D’Hertz, and Druganda exchanged quick glances before excusing themselves. “We’ll resume patrol.”

  Leroy gave a slight nod. “Ensure no one disturbs the outer grounds.”

  The three Vanguards departed, their white-silver cloaks vanishing into the corridors.

  For a moment, silence returned to the cliffs. The sea below rolled like molten glass under the amber light of the sinking sun.

  Then, a shadow crossed the sky.

  A hum—low and resonant—shook the air as an Extraterrestrial transport craft descended from the clouds. Its hull shimmered with plasma lines. The ship’s massive thrusters slowed as it hovered, then landed smoothly in the eastern courtyard.

  Steam hissed. The hatch opened with a deep metallic sigh.

  Descending the ramp was Lord Star, the white-haired luminary of the Extraterrestrial Faction. Beside him walked a smaller figure—Lord Umbrion, patriarch of the House of Umbranova, the second wealthiest lineage among those faction.

  Lord Umbrion’s appearance was strange even by All Realm standards. He stood no taller than a human child, barely one meter and twenty, his skin a bright orange freckled with violet specks. His eyes, narrow and horizontal-pupiled like a frog’s, gleamed with quiet cunning.

  Their arrival did not go unnoticed. At the gate stood the five Vanguards—Sigurd, D’Hertz, Druganda, Raidbones, and Gruk—all bowing in unison as the two lords approached.

  “Lord Star,” Sigurd greeted with reverence, “it is an honor beyond words.”

  “The honor is mine,” Lord Star replied, his voice carrying a calm authority that silenced even the restless sea breeze. He extended a hand, shaking each of theirs in turn. “It’s good to see all of you gathered here. The All Realm still breathes because of vanguards like you.”

  After a respectful pause, they turned to Lord Umbrion. The small alien noble inclined his head graciously. His voice was smooth, a little rasped, yet steady. “You Vanguard always live up to your reputation. Tell me—are you out here patrolling again?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Druganda answered. “Our final patrol before the Silver Chair begins.”

  Lord Star folded his arms. “Good. Keep the kingdom stable.”

  He turned slightly to Sigurd. “What of the Council? Have Leroy, Bjorn, and Elysius arrived?”

  Sigurd lower his head. “Leroy and Professor Bjorn are already here. Elysius is expected tomorrow morning.”