The massive doors of the Palace of Neruga opened once more with a slow, solemn groan. The sound of pistons and echoing metal filled the grand hall as Lord Star and Lord Umbrion entered together, their presence pulling every gaze in the room toward them.

  King Vilion was already waiting near the entrance, bowing deeply. “Lord Star, Lord Umbrion—it is an honor to receive both of you. Neruga is humbled by your presence.”

  Lord Star smiled faintly, the kind of warmth that could disarm even generals. “Your hospitality honors us, King Vilion. It has been far too long since I last stood in this hall.”

  Then, turning to his companion, he spoke softly, “Lord Umbrion, I will meet with Leroy and Bjorn first. Please, take rest in your quarters. We’ll reconvene before the council begins.”

  The two extraterrestrial elders nodded to one another with mutual respect before parting ways down the marble corridor—the tall white-haired luminary walking toward the terraces, and the short, orange-skinned noble vanishing into the depths of the palace, trailed by his attendants.

  The terrace wind smelled of salt and iron when Lord Star stepped into the open.

  Leroy and Bjorn were still seated where the cliffs met the sea—Leroy calm as still water, Bjorn halfway through lighting a cigar. But the moment they saw the approaching figure, both men rose at once. Bjorn flicked the burning cigar away into the waves below, a spark swallowed by the surf.

  “Lord Star,” Leroy said, bowing with quiet reverence.

  “Lord of Stargate,” Bjorn grinned, though even he could not keep the roughness in his voice from softening, “I was starting to think you’d skip this year.”

  Lord Star laughed—a deep, resonant sound that carried the ease of wisdom rather than the arrogance of power. “And miss the chance to see what became of my reckless apprentices? Not a chance.”

  They clasped hands and embraced, an old gesture of warriors who had bled for the same dawn. For a heartbeat, the formality of the council, the weight of their titles, all fell away.

  Lord Star’s hands rested on their shoulders—Leroy to his right, Bjorn to his left. His touch was steady, heavy with the kind of pride that could not be faked. “Leroy,” he said, his gaze soft, “you’ve grown stronger, as always.” Then, with a smirk, he turned to the other side and gave Bjorn’s belly a playful jab. “And you, Bjorn—you’ve grown… well-fed.”

  Bjorn barked out a laugh, rubbing his stomach. “I’ll take that as a compliment, my lord.”

  The three of them laughed together, the sound carried away by the wind and the sea below. Bjorn gestured for Lord Star to take his seat while he and Leroy standing to face him.

  “Starmist sends her greetings,” Lord Star began.

  Leroy and Bjorn exchanged a quick glance—something flickering unspoken between them. For all their composure, in front of this man they looked not like council leaders, but like students being caught skipping class.

  Lord Star saw it too, and his laughter softened into something fonder. “Don’t look so uneasy. I didn’t come to scold you. It’s good to see how far you’ve both come. When I think back to your first debates, you two were insufferable.”

  Even Leroy smiled at that, faintly.

  “Leroy,” Lord Star continued, “visit Stargate again when you can. My little star, Starlax, keeps asking about you even though you both just met a few days ago."

  The Green Wraith nodded with a rare hint of warmth. “If I can steal a day from the Council’s chaos, I’ll keep that promise, Lord Star.”

  Lord Star turned to Bjorn next. “And Bjorn—your apprentice, Njall. He’s been a delight to have in my household. Brilliant boy, kind to my family. Thank you for sending him.”

  Bjorn chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “If he wasn’t exceptional, I wouldn’t have let him out of my fortress. But it’s good to know he’s in hands wiser than mine.”

  Lord Star sighed, smiling. “You two are still so rigid. Must you always stand when I arrive?”

  Bjorn grinned, feigning a groan. “It’s not respect, old man—it’s my back. I’ve been sitting too long, that’s all.”

  Leroy shook his head with faint amusement.

  “Then sit,” Lord Star said kindly. “No formalities here. Just three tired men watching the sea. Politics can wait for the firelight.”

  Leroy signaled to a guard by the door, who hurriedly fetched two chairs. Soon, the three of them sat side by side, the ocean stretching endlessly before them.

  For a moment, no one spoke. The world seemed quiet—too quiet, as if even the waves listened.

  Finally, Lord Star broke the silence. “I came here to tell you both this: I am grateful. The peace you’ve kept, the order you’ve maintained—it has given this realms another decade to breathe.”

  Leroy inclined his head. “You flatter us, Lord Star. We’ve done only what duty demands."

  Bjorn’s expression darkened slightly. “If we truly guarded it well… the tragedy that took your sister wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I don’t wish to sound sentimental,” Lord Star said, his tone calm but warm, “yet truth demands honesty—I am proud of you both.”

  His voice carried the weight of years, the kind of gravity that made even men like Leroy and Bjorn lower their gaze with quiet respect. The two council members smiled, not out of obligation, but out of a rare, genuine fondness.

  Bjorn broke the silence first. “And how have you been, Lord Star?”

  Lord Star laughed—a deep, bright sound that rolled through the salt air like an echo of a long-forgotten youth. “Like any old fool,” he said between chuckles, “I’m driven half-mad by my children’s antics. One think he is general, others philosophers, one’s trying to build a sun in my garden. It’s… exhausting.”

  That earned laughter from both men. Even Leroy’s reserved expression softened into a smile.

  And so, the three sat together—mentor and his two heirs of a world too vast to rule. The sea stretched before them, endless and alive, waves painting the cliffs with silver foam. They did not speak of politics or power, nor the weight of kingdoms. For a few fleeting minutes, they were simply men.

  The calm before the tempest.

  Meanwhile, at the palace gates, D’Hertz had returned early from his patrol. His cloak fluttered in the wind as he leaned against one of the massive bronze pillars flanking the main entrance. His eyes were half-closed, one hand resting lazily on the neck of his guitar—an instrument he carried more often than a weapon, though the wise knew it was both.

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  The peace didn’t last.

  A voice—young, sharp, and trembling with inexperience—cut through the courtyard.

  “I find it strange,” said a man in royal blue, his tone bordering on complaint, “that such an important meeting has so little visible guard presence.”

  The speaker was King Juris of Tibrun—a boy of perhaps twenty, draped in the finery of his father’s house. It was his first attendance at the Silver Chair, and already, unease clung to him like a shadow.

  The palace guards exchanged awkward glances before answering carefully. “Apologies, Your Grace. The arrangements are as they have always been. The Silver Chair meetings… are guarded differently.”

  Juris frowned, brows furrowing. “Differently? This is a gathering of the most powerful rulers in the realm. You can’t call a handful of sentries and open gates security. What if we’re attacked? Do you expect diplomacy to stop arrows?”

  His voice rose with each sentence, frustration building in his chest. The soldiers stayed silent, unsure whether to respond or salute. The young king, nervous beneath his indignation, stepped closer. “This realms grows more dangerous each year. Even with the Council here, protocol demands tighter defenses. What kind of hosts are you if you—”

  The faint scrape of metal boots cut his tirade short.

  D’Hertz opened one eye. His gaze—half-lidded and disinterested—fell upon the boy-king. “Is there a problem, Your Grace?”

  His attire was anything but regal: black leather, black gloves, a streak of silver through his unkempt hair. The guitar slung across his back gleamed faintly, runes pulsing along its frame like a sleeping heartbeat.

  King Juris turned to face him, confusion—and a flicker of disdain—crossing his features. “Who are you supposed to be? A musician? This is a royal palace, not a tavern.”

  The guards visibly tensed. One of them whispered, nervous, “Your Grace… this man is D’Hertz, of the Regal Vanguard.”

  The young king froze mid-sentence. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. The title struck him like a slap. Regal Vanguard—the fourteen god-tier warriors directly serving the Council. The kind of man who could level a castle faster than Juris could draft a decree.

  D’Hertz tilted his head, faint amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “A musician, sure,” he said lazily. “Depends what tune the day requires.”

  Juris swallowed hard. He didn’t apologize—pride still chained his tongue—but his posture softened just enough to betray discomfort.

  D’Hertz stopped a few paces away, looking him over. “You must be the new King of Tibrun. I heard about your father. A good man.”

  Juris nodded stiffly, unsure how to respond. “You… knew him?”

  D’Hertz smiled and nod.

  The young king’s shoulders eased slightly, the tension breaking if only a little.

  “Take it from me, Your Grace,” D’Hertz continued, his tone dropping lower, calmer. “The Silver Chair doesn’t need walls or soldiers. Every person inside that hall could end a war by speaking—or start one by breathing wrong. The safest place in the All Realm… is the most dangerous one.”

  For the first time, Juris fell silent.

  D’Hertz flipped open a small, leather-bound notebook—a registry of the royal attendees. His finger traced down the names until it stopped at one, recently inked.

  Juris of Tibrun.

  Young. Newly crowned.

  The corner of his mouth lifted in understanding. A boy tossed into the lion’s den.

  He stepped forward, his tone softening as he approached the tense young king. “There’s no need to worry, Your Grace,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Inside these walls, you’re safer than anywhere in the realms. There are no guards within because there is no need for them. Out here, however—”

  He gestured toward the sprawling terraces and dark gardens. “—we’ve already secured every path and passage. Nothing stirs in Neruga tonight that we don’t already know of.”

  Juris didn’t seem convinced. His eyes darted between D’Hertz’s strange guitar and the faint glimmer on the man’s coat. When D’Hertz took a step closer, the young ruler straightened instinctively.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be planning anything dangerous inside, would you?” the Vanguard asked lightly, though his gaze was sharp enough to flay lies.

  “Of course not!” Juris blurted, his voice too quick, too loud.

  D’Hertz’s smirk widened ever so slightly. “Ah, I see. Just making sure. I assume your father told you the rules of the Silver Chair—the kind of meeting this really is?”

  “Y–yes,” Juris stammered. “He made it clear. I understand.”

  “Good,” D’Hertz said simply. The glint in his eye softened, but the weight of his presence did not. “Then enjoy the night, Your Grace.”

  The young king, eager to be away from that gaze, nodded hastily and hurried into the palace with his guards.

  Night fell over Neruga.

  The palace’s glass spires shimmered in the dark like captured stars, their reflections trembling in the black waters of the sea below. From within, light poured from the grand hall, spilling across the stone terraces like molten gold. The feast of the Silver Chair had begun.

  Thirty of the most powerful beings in the All Realm—kings, lords, and superhumans—gathered beneath the arched ceiling of the Great Hall. Music drifted faintly from a corner, the hum of mechanical strings blending with the low buzz of conversation.

  Crystal goblets clinked softly. Silver platters gleamed with roasted meat, rare fruits, and the finest wines from across the continents. It was a banquet designed not for appetite, but for display—a delicate dance of wealth and civility.

  At the far table, Bjorn, Lord Star, and Mr. Grave stood together, glasses in hand, the faintest thread of smoke curling above Bjorn’s head as he laughed at one of Lord Star’s gentle jests.

  Across the hall, Leroy, Lord Umbrion, and Thaddeus Clyde conversed among the noblemen and commonfolk kings—measured, calm, a circle of intellects trading pleasantries while their eyes never stopped observing.

  Every smile was a mask.

  Outside, beyond the bright warmth of the feast, the Vanguards stood watch under the moonlight. They rotated in pairs, moving between the palace gates and the upper courtyards, each aware that a single shadow could undo the fragile peace inside.

  For now, however, all was quiet.

  Inside, laughter echoed politely.

  Outside, the wind hummed over the cliffs.

  Leroy felt the edges of fatigue pressing at his mind. The sweetness of wine, the sound of hollow conversations—everything in that hall felt too polished. Too deliberate.

  He excused himself quietly, ignoring the curious looks from a few lesser kings as he slipped out into the cool night air. The moon bathed the palace steps in silver.

  When he reached the guard post at the front, the Vanguards looked up almost in unison.

  “Who’s on watch tonight?” Leroy asked, his tone low but firm.

  The question made the group immediately straighten. Gruk, sitting cross-legged with a massive tome in his hands, adjusted his spectacles before answering. “Myself, Raidbones, and Druganda.”

  The massive Yeti didn’t look up from his book. “Don’t worry,” he added casually, “if someone tries to breach the palace, we’ll make sure they regret it before their second heartbeat.”

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of Leroy’s lips. “I don’t doubt that.”

  From the other side of the courtyard, the soft sound of plucked strings drifted through the night. D’Hertz, leaning against a column, was lazily playing a quiet melody on his guitar—haunting, peaceful, but edged with something that could break into violence at any note.

  He looked up at Leroy’s approach. “Well, well,” he said, a crooked grin forming. “The great Green Wraith, walking out of a royal banquet? Don’t tell me you’ve finally grown bored of polite laughter and rich cowards pretending to be kings?”

  “The drinks in there are all alcohol,” Leroy muttered, leaning one shoulder against the gate’s cold iron frame. The night wind tugged lightly at his coat. “I can’t stomach any more of it.”

  D’Hertz laughed from his spot near the pillar, plucking a lazy chord. “You’re the only one who’d walk out of a banquet for that reason, First Brother. Most men would kill for free liquor.”

  Leroy ignored the tease, his gaze sweeping the silent courtyards and distant lamps of the lower city. “Is the kingdom secure?” he asked finally, his tone changing—calm but edged with authority.

  “We’ve made two full rounds today,” said Sigurd, removing his gauntlets with a hiss of cooling metal. “The walls, the gates, even the lower piers. Nothing suspicious. All’s quiet.”

  “Hmm.” Leroy crossed his arms. “D’Hertz, you’re assigned the night watch. And before you argue, I know exactly what happens when you guard during meeting days.”

  The musician’s strumming stopped mid-note. He blinked. “Hey, come on… I wasn’t listening in last year, I just happened to be standing near the door.”

  Leroy gave him a flat look. “You don’t stand anywhere near anything without eavesdropping.”

  “Swear I won’t this time,” D’Hertz said, holding up both hands.

  “I don’t believe you.” Leroy turned his eyes toward Druganda, who had been quietly checking his suit. “You’ll switch with him. Tonight, you take the gate. D’Hertz rests.”

  Druganda looked up, his heavy brows knitting for a second before he sighed. “If that’s your order, Chief, then so be it.”

  D’Hertz threw his hands up, grinning in defeat. “Ah, fine, fine. First Brother has spoken.”

  “Good.” Leroy nodded, already turning away.

  Sigurd stretched, slipping his gloves into his belt. “Come on, Druganda. We’re done for the night. And we’d better get some rest—tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  The two Vanguards—The Mischief Paladin and Exotic Venom—started their slow walk back toward the palace, their silhouettes shrinking under the tall torches lining the road.

  That left Leroy, Gruk, and D’Hertz at the front gate—the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and oil, the faint hum of Neruga’s machinery echoing from the cliffs.

  The Silver Chair awaited them all tomorrow.