The dawn that broke over Neruga carried no fanfare.

  Inside their chamber, Leroy and Bjorn were already awake, seated by the window as they reviewed the day’s agenda. Steam hissed softly from the kettle between them, the scent of roasted grain and oil hanging in the air.

  Across the room, Elysius lay sprawled across the bed, sound asleep. Sheets tangled, papers scattered on the floor. His quill still rested loosely in his hand.

  Leroy sipped his drink and smiled faintly. “The future seems too tired to live in the present.”

  Bjorn chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “He’s probably been up all night pretending to understand our reports.”

  But the professor’s fondness quickly turned to mischief. He drew a deep breath and bellowed, “ELY—SIUS!”

  The boy nearly leapt off the mattress. Papers flew everywhere. “W–what?! What happened?! I’m awake! I’m ready!”

  Bjorn roared with laughter, clutching his stomach, while Leroy simply shook his head, a rare grin pulling at his lips. “Breakfast in thirty minutes,” he said.

  Half an hour later, all three were dressed and assembled.

  Every banner was still. Every seat occupied.

  As always, it was Leroy who began. His opening words were brief and formal, stripped of pleasantries. “The final session of the Ninth Silver Chair is now in order.”

  Lord Star smiled faintly at the directness, the corners of his eyes glinting with pride. The last day of the Silver Chair was always the most human: open discussion, unfiltered questions, the rulers speaking their minds at last.

  The morning’s first topic was the management of natural resources, tied closely to the absent Factions of Elementalists, the Metal Gods, and the Shogunate. But with those representatives missing, the discussion thinned quickly—little more than updates and polite remarks.

  It was Bjorn’s turn next, presenting on infrastructure and industrial expansion. Cogworks’ results were, as expected, unmatched.

  Under his direction, entire networks of steam lines and power forges had been rebuilt or upgraded since the last war. Machines now drove the realm forward faster than faith or magic ever could.

  When Bjorn finished, a brief silence followed—then came the applause.

  King Vilion, host of the Silver Chair, rose first, his voice clear and resonant.

  “On behalf of the twenty commonfolk kingdoms gathered here,” he declared, “I extend our gratitude to the Cogworks Faction. The realms progress would not have been possible without your design and labor.”

  Leroy smile slightly in acknowledgment, while Bjorn offered a half-hearted salute with his cigar between two fingers.

  Then, King Frizo of the Northern Dominion—a tall, stern man draped in furs—spoke next.

  “Our only curiosity, Professor,” he said, “is this: for all the success Cogworks has achieved, why is it that its leader—the Prime Director himself—has never once attended the Silver Chair? Not once since the day he was chosen.”

  All eyes turned toward the empty seat at the far side of the round table. A polished bronze plaque marked it clearly:

  “Cogworks Prime Director – Reserved.”

  Bjorn’s expression didn’t change, though a spark of amusement flickered in his eyes.

  King Otis, from the Southern Steam Dominion, nodded. “Indeed. We can excuse the Shogun’s absence this year, but Cogworks?”

  Bjorn smirked. “He’s a busy man, your grace. If he spent his time in meetings, the realms would be a duller, slower place.”

  There was a ripple of uneasy laughter across the room.

  King Vilion, ever the diplomat, spoke again. “Still, Professor, many of us feel that a direct gesture of appreciation should be made to him—in person. The Silver Chair is, after all, a sacred space. To receive our collective thanks through proxy feels…”

  Queen Diane of the Western Isles finished his sentence delicately. “Incomplete. With respect, Professor, you represent the Council, not the Faction itself.”

  Bjorn looked at them for a long moment, silent.

  Then, the corner of his mouth curled—not into mirth, but into something darker.

  When he spoke, his tone was low, the kind that quieted a room by instinct alone.

  “If he were here,” Bjorn said softly, “you should first ask yourselves—are you ready to face him?”

  Bjorn’s remark cut through the chamber like a blade.

  The laughter that had lingered moments ago vanished. Even Leroy, Mr. Grave, and Thaddeus Clyde paused mid-breath, their eyes narrowing as silence thickened into something palpable.

  The Cogworks professor leaned forward slightly, a cruel smile ghosting his lips. “See?” he said quietly, but every word rang like a hammer striking an anvil. “You can’t even say his name, can you?”

  No one spoke.

  Leroy cleared his throat and gently shifted the room’s momentum. “Let’s move forward,” he said. “Next topic: Sovereignty.”

  Papers rustled again as the delegates turned to the final pages of their ledgers. The weight of bureaucracy filled the room once more—ink and parchment replacing tension.

  The security report was sobering. The All Realm remained stable, but not spotless.

  Leroy’s voice echoed clearly as he summarized: “Our defenses hold firm, yet incidents persist—the Colosseum attack, despite all Council members present. The Susanoo destruction. Minor disturbances linked to the Weapon Master syndicates. None pose existential threat, but they mark… unease.”

  He paused, allowing that word to linger. Unease.

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  Still, the Council had already ruled those anomalies as isolated events—ripples, not waves. The consensus: vigilance, but not panic.

  And then—one voice broke the fragile calm.

  King Bastille of the Western Dominion stood. His golden epaulettes caught the light, but his tone was sharp and cold.

  “Honored Council,” he began, “I have one question regarding the death of King Dayrand of Alvoria.”

  The room froze.

  He continued, slowly, deliberately. “Witnesses claim the last person to meet him before his demise was none other than the Sorcerer Supreme.”

  A low murmur spread through the assembly like the rustle of dry leaves.

  Bjorn raised an eyebrow. Leroy’s jaw tightened.

  And before the silence could rot into accusation—Thaddeus Clyde stood.

  “Your words tread dangerous ground, Your Majesty,” he said, voice cutting yet composed. “You speak as though you accuse my faction’s leader of regicide.”

  Bjorn’s tone turned cold. “Indeed. You didn’t ask a question, Your Grace. You spoke his name—Cygnus Spellbane—after your accusation. That makes your curiosity less of a question… and more of a claim.”

  For a long heartbeat, no one moved.

  Across the table, Lord Star and Leroy exchanged a quiet glance. The old lord’s gaze urged restraint—not yet.

  Leroy inclined his head slightly in response.

  King Bastille’s composure trembled under the pressure, yet he forced himself to speak. “No accusation—merely a matter for open discussion. Is that not the purpose of this meeting? To question?”

  Bjorn rose halfway from his chair, his shadow spilling long across the polished floor. “Then let me answer you plainly,” he said, his voice heavy as a storm front.

  “The autopsy revealed no trace of sorcery. No residue, no arcane signature. Whatever killed King Dayrand—it was not a spell.”

  He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded document, placing it on the table with a sharp thud. “This,” he said, “is the full forensic record. You may examine it, if you wish to trade your suspicions for facts.”

  Leroy’s tone followed, quieter but sharper. “We mourn Dayrand’s death as you all do. But to speak a Council member’s name without proof—” he turned his gaze directly on Bastille “—is an act bordering on treachery.”

  King Bastille sank slowly back into his seat. His hands clenched, then loosened, his face pale but defiant

  “The condition he was found in was… horrific,” King Bastille continued, his voice trembling just enough for everyone to hear. “It has haunted me for weeks, truth be told.” His knuckles whitened against the table. “It frightens me, Councilors. Truly.”

  Bjorn’s eyes glinted like sharpened brass behind the smoke of his cigar. He raised his head slowly, glasses sliding up to rest on his brow.

  “And why, Your Majesty,” he asked, voice dropping low, “should the death of a traitor frighten you?”

  The words struck like iron falling on stone.

  Bjorn leaned forward. “King Dayrand was proven to have incited rebellion. If his fate terrifies you, there is only one reason—” he paused, the smirk fading into something colder, “—you plan to do the same.”

  Bastille’s face drained of color. He said nothing. The sound of the wind outside the tall glass windows filled the silence in his stead. Around him, several other rulers froze as if afraid even to shift in their seats.

  From the opposite side of the table, King Vilion stood, breaking the tension with a tremor in his voice.

  “We understand our place in the All Realm,” he began carefully. “No king or queen gathered here harbors such treasonous thoughts. None of us would dare—not when the Sorcerer Supreme, the Flame Goddess, and the Fallen Knight still sit at the same table.”

  The names echoed through the chamber like the tolling of ancient bells.

  Elysius, who had been writing steadily through the entire meeting, froze. His quill stopped mid-line. He looked up slowly from his parchment—his golden eyes reflecting both confusion and unease.

  Those names

  To him, they were mentors.

  To these rulers, they were something else entirely.

  Symbols of fear. Of dominance. Of an unreachable pantheon watching from above.

  Leroy exhaled quietly. Lord Star’s calm gaze found his across the table once again. A brief exchange—silent, deliberate—passed between them. The old lord gave a slow nod.

  Leroy turned toward the guards at the doors and gave a subtle signal. The armored sentinels moved forward, each carrying thick folders of parchment bound with golden seals.

  “These,” Leroy announced, “are the Silver Records—complete transcripts and documentation of every matter discussed over past few days. They will be provided to each realm for review and accountability.

  The gesture, though formal, felt like a soft declaration of closure. A reminder that the Council’s authority was not just divine—it was recorded.

  But before the moment could settle, another voice rose from the far end of the table.

  It was King Juris—the young monarch of Tibrun, his crown still too large for his head. He stood hesitantly, glancing at the other rulers as though pushed forward.

  “Councilors… I—I speak on behalf of my peers,” he stammered. “We share a common concern.”

  Bjorn waved a hand, cigar smoke swirling. “Please speak, you grace. Tell us your concern.”

  Juris swallowed hard, then found his courage. “Our armies,” he said. “Our people. We fear for their future. In recent years, the pride of serving in a royal force has… diminished.”

  He looked around, and saw hesitant nods from his elders. “More and more of our soldiers abandon their posts to pursue other paths—to join your factions. The Sorcerers, Weapon Masters, Cogworks Consortium… They promise power, freedom, prestige. What king can compete with that?”

  His voice cracked slightly, and he forced himself to continue. “If this continues, soon no commonfolk will bear the sword for their realm. What will we be then? Kings without armies.”

  Queen Flora of the Eastern Kingdom spoke next, her voice gentle but strained.

  “Even the young soldiers we’ve trained with such care—they learn what they can from us, then leave… chasing relics in foreign lands.”

  Her confession rippled through the hall, echoed by King Michael of the Western Provinces.

  “It’s no mystery why,” he said bitterly. “Those who long for balance become Sorcerers. Those who crave freedom and battle join the Weapon Masters. And those who dream of building a future turn to Cogworks. What does that leave for us, Councilors?”

  The chamber dimmed under the weight of his words. The flames of the chandeliers flickered as if straining to listen.

  King Vilion, still standing, took a step forward. “This shift is unbalancing our internal power. Tell us, Council—can this phenomenon be controlled?”

  Leroy rested his hands atop the great tome before him, his voice even and deliberate. “If we could control human desire, your grace, there would be no need for this Council at Caelmreach at all.”

  He turned a page slowly. “But we have imposed restrictions—entry to the factions is no longer as open as it once was.”

  Bjorn exhaled a trail of smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. “To join the Sorcerers, one needs rare talent and unbreakable will. To seek relics as a Weapon Master means gambling with one’s life—and luck. And becoming a Majestic Inventor in Cogworks?” He smirked. “You’d have better odds of bottling lightning.”

  A few nervous laughs surfaced, but quickly died away.

  Then Lord Star spoke, his tone calm but firm. “And as for relics—our faction, the Extraterrestrials, has raised their value. The trade is now closely monitored. We are aware of the dangers of abundance.”

  It was King Boros of the Northern Reaches who finally broke the pause. “Then what of the black market, Lord Star? That’s where the true peril lies. Where the relics are stolen, traded, and misused.”

  Bjorn let out a quiet, humorless laugh. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “I wasn’t going to open this box,” he said, “but since you insist…”

  He tapped his cigar against the edge of the table, ash scattering like tiny gray embers. “Don’t pretend sanctity, your grace. Not when all twenty-five of your kingdoms have bought from that same market.”

  The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in.

  No one answered.

  Because no one could.

  Bjorn smiled faintly, eyes glinting beneath the low light.

  Leroy closed his tome with a muted thud. “We need not speak of the Table of Oculus, or the Majestic Inventor, or the Weapon Masters syndicates,” he said. “They are systems that we’ve already managed, shaping them quietly from within.”

  He looked around the circle—at kings, queens, and nobles who dared not meet his gaze.

  “Think of this,” he continued. “It is not oppression. It is natural selection. Humanity’s desires evolve faster than its laws.”

  Bjorn rose from his seat, stretching his arms with a grunt. “The truth, Your Majesties, is that people will always follow the strongest flame. Today, that flame burns in the banners of the superhuman factions. Accept that truth, and you’ll find peace.”

  Leroy gave the closing words, his tone like the tolling of a slow, iron bell.

  “The meeting of the Ninth Silver Chair has ended.”

  One by one, the kings and queens rose, departing through the tall, echoing doors. Their faces carried the same expression—half reverence, half dread.

  The Silver Chair no longer symbolized unity.

  It was the quiet throne of dominance.

  Outside, the bells of Neruga tolled noon.

  For now, the reign of the Superhumans endured, unquestioned, unbroken, and absolute.