The morning sun poured its golden warmth across the kingdom of Neruga, gilding the steeples and iron spires in light. The capital stirred awake like a great machine; merchants opened their brass shutters, children’s laughter echoed through cobbled alleys, and the faint hiss of steam rolled over rooftops.

  For the commonfolk, it was a day like any other—work, trade, and study under the gentle sun.

  But within the palace walls, the air was far from gentle.

  Today marked the beginning of the Silver Chair —a day when words, not blades, would decide the course of realms.

  From the clear blue heavens, a figure descended.

  Elysius, the All-Seeing, landed before the gates of Neruga’s palace.

  He strode quickly through the entrance hall, robes fluttering, until he reached the garden courtyard where Leroy and Professor Bjorn were already waiting, both seated beneath the stone arches overlooking the cliffs.

  “You’re late again, boy,” Bjorn grumbled, puffing out a short breath and flicking the ash from his cigar. “We almost gave your chair to one of the Vanguards.”

  “Sorry, Uncle,” Elysius said between breaths, setting his staff down beside him. “I had to sort through the latest information for Cognisource before leaving.”

  Bjorn raised a brow. “Skuld helped, I assume?”

  “Of course,” Elysius replied with a small smile.

  The three of them lingered there a while longer, the sound of the ocean below mixing with the slow hum of the palace machinery. When half an hour remained before the meeting, the Council members finally rose and began their walk toward the Grand Chamber.

  Elysius adjusted the twin emblems pinned to his chest—one bearing the golden seal of the Council, and another, smaller crest gleaming with celestial brilliance: the insignia of the Celestial Faction, a golden sun encircled by a compass whose needle shifted constantly, pointing not to north or south, but to the changing will of fate itself.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, looking between the two elders. “For letting me join you this year.”

  Bjorn snorted, giving the boy a playful shove toward the marble path. “This meeting is dreadfully boring, but don’t worry. I’ll show you where the fun hides in all this politeness.”

  Leroy, his expression faintly amused, added, “If you find it as interesting, I’ll see to it that we add another seat next year.”

  Elysius blinked in surprise. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to give that seat to Master Spellbane or Flame Goddess instead?”

  Bjorn laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Oh, if only you knew how the commonfolk see them.”

  Leroy said nothing, but the hint of a knowing smile crossed his face.

  They entered the Chamber—the sanctum of diplomacy and pride.

  A vast circular table dominated the center of the hall, hollow in its middle like the eye of a storm. Around it stood thirty seats, each marked with sigils and insignias of their bearer’s realm. Seven grand banners of the superhuman factions hung behind the Council’s dais, their silken folds heavy with history. Beyond them, banners of the commonfolk kingdoms formed a ring around the walls, their colors more subdued but no less proud.

  Already gathered were the most powerful figures of the All Realm: Lord Star, radiant and composed; Lord Umbrion, his orange skin shimmering faintly under the lamps; Mr. Grave, silent as a tombstone; and Thaddeus Clyde, ever immaculate in his robe. Along the outer ring sat the twenty kings of the mortal nations, murmuring in cautious tones.

  At the head of the table, the three Council members took their places.

  Leroy, the Green Wraith, sat at the center—the calm axis of the world’s chaos.

  To his right, Professor Bjorn, leaned back in his seat, his metallic fingers tapping the table’s edge. Beside him sat Mr. Grave and Thaddeus Clyde.

  On Leroy’s left, Elysius took his seat, his youthful face hiding the quiet nervousness of someone newly arrived at history’s core. Beside him were Lord Star and Lord Umbrion, followed by the ranks of human kings, some regal, others visibly uneasy.

  Three seats remained empty, each marked with symbols of power that shaped the realms: the Shogun, the Metal Gods, and the Cogworks Consortium’s Prime Director. None had come. Their vacant chairs stood like ghosts at the edge of the council’s circle.

  And when all eyes turned toward the center, a solemn bell tolled—its sound echoing through marble and iron alike.

  Thus began the Ninth Silver Chair Council, under the reign of superhumans—

  the gathering where destiny would once again pretend to be peace.

  All the grand doors of the chamber sealed with a deep mechanical hum.

  The light within dimmed—not dark, but softened to a gentle brilliance that was easy on the eyes, warm enough to feel civilized yet sharp enough to deny sleep. The air itself seemed to still, the faint hiss of Neruga’s engines outside the only reminder of the world beyond.

  At the head of the great table, Leroy rose. The Green Wraith opened his tome—a colossal ledger bound in abyssal leather, lined with sigils that glowed faintly when touched. The pages whispered like voices as he turned them.

  “Let us begin,” he said.

  His tone was calm, clear, and commanding. No crown gleamed brighter than his composure.

  The first matter on the agenda: trade.

  Elysius, seated beside him, straightened in his chair. For this first council of his life, he would not speak—only watch, listen, and learn. He took out several sheets of paper and a slender quill of gold. Every word uttered here would shape nations, and he meant to remember them all.

  Leroy began his report, his voice echoing softly across the chamber.

  By the time it concluded, the morning light had shifted, pouring through the stained glass windows in angled rays that gilded the chamber’s banners. The hall grew warmer, but no less tense.

  Leroy closed his tome and gestured to the next speakers. “We discuss about intergalactic trade. Lord Star, Lord Umbrion—this domain is yours.”

  The two Extraterrestrial lords exchanged a brief nod before rising.

  Lord Star spoke first, his voice smooth and bright as starlight. “Our current trade routes remain stable. The production output from the surface realms continues to meet demands.”

  Lord Umbrion adjusted the edge of his finely embroidered cloak, his orange skin glowing faintly beneath the chamber’s lights. “To summarize, Your Graces, the situation is… manageable, though delicate. We’ve been working to maintain balanced trade between interstellar colonies and the All Realm. Still, it requires patience.”

  A king from the commonfolk side rose—King Michael of Dupront, the man whose harbor had been reduced to ash months prior.

  “Forgive my interruption, Lords,” he said, bowing slightly, “but regarding the reconstruction of the harbor near Dupront, the one destroyed by Vanguard Susanoo—will the Extraterrestrial House assist in rebuilding it soon?”

  A low murmur followed. Several rulers nodded subtly; the destruction of a trade hub had sent ripples through multiple economies.

  Lord Umbrion placed both hands on the table. “Perhaps not as soon as you wish, Your Grace. The site’s foundation was irreparably damaged. We are redesigning the entire structure from the ground up.”

  Lord Star added, his gaze steady, “And for what it’s worth, our architects believe this delay will pay dividends in the future. The new harbor will be stronger, larger, and equipped for the next century of intergalactic trade.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Regarding potion trade,” said Thaddeus Clyde, his voice smooth but measured, eyes flicking between the two lords of the stars. “To be frank, we’re struggling to meet demand. The reagents are harder to source each cycle. Should we not raise the prices to reflect this scarcity?”

  Lord Star turned his gaze toward the sorcerer—calm, assessing, the faintest glint of silver catching in his eyes. “Potions are a special commodity, Master Thaddeus,” he replied. “There is always room for premium pricing.”

  The sorcerer chuckled faintly.

  Across the table, King Vilion—host of this grand council—cleared his throat, drawing all eyes toward him. “My lords and masters,” he began, his tone diplomatic yet edged with worry, “forgive me for shifting the subject, but my greatest concern lies not with potion, but with metal.”

  The air seemed to tighten. The sound of quills and murmured translation halted.

  “Abyss remains the primary supplier,” Vilion continued, “and their contribution has been… admirable. Still, with All Realm’s industrial appetite growing, I fear our own demand will soon outpace supply. If we continue exporting ore to the intergalactic trade routes, are we not endangering our own foundation?”

  For a heartbeat, silence. Then Mr. Grave rose—his tall, pale figure casting a long shadow across the silver-lit floor.

  He spoke with the calm finality of a man used to ending debates. “On behalf of King Darkon, the Metal Gods, and the miners of the Southern Abyss, I assure that our supply remains stable. The southern fields alone stretch sevenfold the size of all five of your kingdoms combined, Your Grace.”

  His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. The kind that could break bones if resisted.

  Still, dissent lingered.

  Elysius stared helplessly at the papers before him. His quill spun nervously between his fingers, unsure which words were important and which were just noise. Around him, the conversation blurred into a chorus of polite conflict—each phrase measured, every breath a weapon.

  Lord Star and Lord Umbrion remained silent. The Extraterrestrial lords had learned long ago that even truth, when spoken into the wrong silence, could turn to poison.

  He looked around the table—every eye locked to his. “The All Realm will have its metal. You may hold me to that.”

  His tone was simple, without threat or boast.

  And yet no one in that chamber doubted it was a promise written in iron.

  The tension eased. Chairs shifted. The matter, at least for now, was closed.

  The great clocks struck noon, their mechanical chimes echoing through the palace halls.

  Leroy stood, closing the ledger once more. “That will conclude our session for the morning. The next assembly will resume in two hours.”

  There was a rustle of robes and steel as the council began to disperse. Some nobles lingered, still murmuring over figures and trade. Others retreated to their chambers or the banquet hall, seeking reprieve in food or solitude.

  Outside, the air was cool and clean.

  On the seaward balcony, Leroy, Bjorn, and Elysius returned to their familiar perch—the same stone railing where the previous day’s calm had preceded chaos.

  “So… what exactly did we just talk about?” Elysius asked, a guilty, boyish grin tugging at his lips as he laughed softly—half amusement, half admission.

  “That’s exactly why I call this meeting boring,” Bjorn replied, relaxing into the stone bench and flicking his cigar back to life with a practiced shove of his thumb.

  Elysius fidgeted with his quill. “Honestly, I didn’t even know what to write down. Everything sounded important.” Frustration flitted across his face; he had the humility to admit his weakness.

  “You’re doing exactly what I did in my first two meeting,” Leroy said, voice low and steady.

  “Don’t force it if you don’t understand it all yet,” Bjorn added, smirking as he exhaled a lazy plume of smoke. “You still need to balance your fighting strength. That’s why we stay above the rest. You don’t want to be one of those dull men in powdered wigs, do you?” He clicked his mechanical fingers together and resumed his lecture in half-jest.

  Bjorn chuckled. “At least there’s no one like Amaterasu shouting across the table tonight.” His laugh was bright but short; the name hung in the air like a warning.

  “You know,” Leroy said gently, “decades ago, the kings of the commonfolk ran these meetings. See how time has bent? Now when Lord Star or Mr. Grave speak, the commonfolk struggles to answer.”

  Elysius watched the two older men—their faces carved by battles and bargains—settle into the weight of the world. He perched on the balcony rail, legs dangling above the ragged cliff, the drop to the sea making his stomach flutter.

  “That’s the legacy we built for your generation,” Bjorn murmured, smoke curling up like a small, defiant flag. Then, with a grin that was half joke and half oath, he leaned in and murmured, “If you fail me, boy, I’ll claw my way out of the grave and kill you myself.”

  They laughed, the sound brittle and warm at once—soldiers laughing in the face of fate. The joke was a shield, flimsy and necessary. For Elysius, the mandate pressed on him like iron: the possibility that one day he might inherit the Council’s burden, and the thought of the world’s weight turning into his alone made the horizon look suddenly narrower.

  After two hours of recess, the Silver Chair convened once more. The atmosphere had cooled; laughter from the halls was gone, replaced by the quiet gravity that hung before another long session. The great round chamber dimly glowed again with the same warm, unwavering light.

  One by one, the kings and nobles resumed their seats. The murmur of voices trickled back into the air—low, uncertain, filled with restrained curiosity.

  Elysius was not yet among them. The young Celestial had lingered behind, washing the weariness from his face in the bath halls of the palace. He would arrive shortly, though the council had already begun to notice his absence.

  Leroy sat at the center of the table once more, calm as always, while Professor Bjorn leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, eyes half-lidded but alert. The moment the last monarch was seated, a subtle wave of whispering began—soft at first, then sharper, directed toward the two councilors.

  Bjorn’s mechanical fingers tapped once on the table. “Something on your minds?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.

  It was King Dreyfus of Hurica, a stout man with silver in his beard and pride in his bearing, who finally stood. “Councilors,” he began, bowing briefly, “I apologize for intruding before the agenda resumes. But I have… a question, perhaps one shared by several of my peers.”

  Leroy inclined his head slightly, permitting him to continue.

  “This matter concerns Elysius—the Celestial representative,” Dreyfus said carefully, choosing his words. Several kings and queens around him nodded in agreement, their expressions mirroring the same unease.

  Bjorn raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  The king drew a steady breath. “To speak plainly, is he truly the only Celestial left on the surface of the All Realm?”

  The chamber fell into a hush.

  Bjorn exchanged a brief glance with Leroy, who gave no answer yet. The kings, sensing they’d crossed into sacred ground, pressed on.

  Ruler after ruler began voicing their worries—softly, but with growing conviction. Elysius, they said, was too young, too untested. His faction was too distant, too secretive. The Celestials, people of the firmament, had long withdrawn from the affairs of the living. And now their child, one who bore the mark of the heavens was listening to every secret of kings and superhumans alike.

  “What if,” whispered Queen Qhira of the Eastern Vale, “the boy is not a delegate, but a herald?”

  The unease spread like a draft through the room.

  Bjorn straightened slowly, his chair groaning under the weight of his frame. When he spoke, his voice was sharp enough to cut through the tension like iron splitting glass.

  “What exactly are you afraid of?” he said.

  King Dreyfus faltered.

  Leroy finally spoke, his tone calm but heavy. “We do not bring those we do not trust. Elysius sits at this table because we chose him to. There is reason behind every presence, just as there is reason behind every absence.”

  Bjorn leaned forward, eyes glinting like molten brass. “You think we’re careless enough to expose the Silver Chair to a spy? If we doubted him for even a heartbeat, the boy wouldn’t have seen the sun today.”

  The room went still. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

  “We understand, Councilors,” Queen Qhira said quickly, lowering her head. “No offense was intended. It was curiosity—nothing more.”

  He pushed himself back into his chair, cigar smoldering between his fingers. “Then let me make this simple: You will show him the same respect you show us.”

  His voice boomed against the metal and marble until it died into the stunned silence that followed. The kings nodded slightly. No one dared argue.

  “Good,” Bjorn said at last, settling back with a grunt. “Then we’re finished with this distraction.”

  Leroy gave him a sidelong look—a hint of quiet amusement breaking through his composure. Then, without missing a beat, he reopened the massive tome before him.

  “Now, let us proceed.”

  Moments later, Elysius reentered the chamber—his hair still damp, his golden staff in hand. He paused briefly, sensing the shift in atmosphere but too polite to ask. Bjorn’s nod told him nothing was amiss.

  The young Celestial slipped quietly into his seat as Leroy turned a page and withdrew a folded note from the spine of his book.

  “Our next item,” Leroy began, “concerns Cryon batteries.”

  The term immediately drew attention.

  “Over the past year,” he continued, “demand has surged dramatically—exceeding even relic requisitions by a significant margin. The rise appears consistent across both All Realm markets and intergalactic tade.”

  “This, of course, ties directly to the expanding industrial grid of the All Realm,” said Lord Star, folding his hands over the table. His voice, calm as moonlight, carried the weight of absolute certainty. “The growing of Cogworks faction have created both opportunity and imbalance. Cryon batteries already become the pulse of our progress.”

  Bjorn nodded, his metallic fingers tapping rhythmically against the table’s surface. “We’ve already begun implementing Cryon batteries to replace conventional fuels in vehicles. Cleaner. Longer-lasting. No toxic.”

  Leroy looked up from his notes, eyes narrowing slightly. “And will Cogworks fully begin manufacturing the other Cryon engines themselves?”

  Bjorn chuckled, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “Not yet. All of the The Majestic Inventor is still in early trials. But if the design pass… well, we might just put steam engines in the museums.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, cigar smoke curling up between his words. “Our territory is near full capacity already—factories crowding the borders, gears grinding day and night. So… don’t be surprised if a few of our industrial sites spill into your kingdoms next year.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the room, easing the tension for the first time that day. Even King Dreyfus managed a thin smile, though his eyes betrayed the thought of foreign smokestacks rising on his horizon.

  The discussion stretched on for four more hours—endless talk of power grids, star routes, tariffs, and the great machinery of nations. By the time the session adjourned, the sun had long dipped beyond the western mountains. The Silver Chair’s second day came to a close under the weight of progress and exhaustion alike.

  That night, no banquets were held.

  The palace dimmed to silence, its halls bathed in silver moonlight. The delegates were free to rest or wander as they pleased.