A vast, circular chamber sat at the highest level of the royal castle.
Black stone walls rose toward a domed ceiling, lost in shadow. Faint purple light pulsed through intricate carvings etched into every surface, ancient runes that seemed to shift and breathe when not directly observed.
A massive round table dominated the center, its surface polished to a mirror shine, reflecting nothing but darkness. High-backed chairs surrounded it, each occupied by figures whose very presence made the air heavy and cold.
This was the Nightmare Council.
The highest authority in all of Nemure.
Naturally, as the Sovereign of Nemure, Xeron sat at the head of the table.
His small frame seemed almost swallowed by the ornate seat, yet no one in the chamber could mistake who held authority here. He leaned his cheek against his fist, legs crossed, his expression one of absolute indifference. His dark eyes stared at nothing in particular, as if the heated discussion surrounding him was beneath his attention.
The most powerful figures in the realm filled the remaining seats.
To his right sat the military faction. Generals draped in dark uniforms decorated with symbols of conquest. Their faces were hard, their postures rigid, their eyes burning with barely restrained hunger. Marshal Kyrin, a towering man with iron-gray hair and a scar that split his face from brow to jaw, led their contingent. His hands rested flat on the table, fingers tapping impatiently.
To his left sat the royal elders and council administrators. Ancient figures whose power radiated in subtle waves rather than aggressive displays. Elder Vaal, his face lined with centuries of careful maneuvering, sat at their head. His fingers were steepled before him, his expression carefully neutral.
Between them sat the remaining members of the council.
"Preparations are finished, and the forces are ready," a general stated, leaning forward. "Why wait any longer? We should strike now while our momentum is at its peak."
"No." An elder councilman shook his head. "If we start the dimensional invasion now, we risk everything. The moment our forces cross over, we might be attacked by others who have been waiting for us to thin our borders. We are not just fighting one front..."
"The opportunity is right in front of us," another voice argued. "Waiting only gives our enemies time to fortify their defenses..."
"And if the rift collapses? We are overextending ourselves for a gamble..."
The arguments continued to clash, voices rising in volume and intensity as each side threw out their fears and ambitions. The debate spiraled into a shouting match of frantic gestures.
"War!"
"No war!"
"No, war!"
"..."
"..."
Xeron let out a slow, heavy sigh. He then tapped a single finger against the surface of the table.
’Vroom...’
The sound was quiet, yet the vibrations traveled through the obsidian like a physical shockwave.
The noise stopped instantly. Every mouth snapped shut as the sound echoed through the room. Xeron remained leaning on his fist, his expression completely flat. He moved his gaze across the faces of the royal family and the high-ranking officers, looking at them with a cold indifference.
"Why are you all so noisy?" he muttered. "It’s not like you are the ones who will actually be fighting on the front lines.
"..."
They didn’t dare utter a single word.
A heavy silence pressed down on the chamber. The generals who had been shouting moments ago now kept their gazes fixed on the table. The elders who had argued so passionately found sudden interest in their own folded hands.
No one spoke.
No one except a quiet, collective murmur.
"...Your Highness."
Xeron continued as if he hadn’t heard them.
"As I said from the start, I will lead this war myself. All of you are staying here. So there is no need to worry about others attacking." His dark eyes swept across their faces. "Even if they do attack, are we that weak to be easily defeated?"
The question hung in the cold air. The generals looked at their hands; the elders looked at the table. To admit fear was to admit incompetence, and to disagree was to challenge his judgment.
Vaal was the only one who found his voice, though it was strained. "What about your safety, Your Highness? To step into another dimension alone..."
"You don’t need to worry about me," Xeron cut him off. "It’s not like I’m going to war with the whole of Alverra. I’m only attacking a small kingdom within it." He leaned back slightly. "By the time their Sovereigns react, I will have already finished the war and returned."
"Still..." Vaal pressed, his hands tightening on the table’s edge. "You are the ruler of Nemure. Your safety is our top priority. That’s why, at the very least, take Marshal Kyrin or one of the ancestors with you."
Xeron was quiet for a moment.
"...Thank you for your concern," he said, his tone a fraction softer. "But that’s enough. I have said what I intended to say."
He rose from his seat.
"We will depart tomorrow. The next meeting will be held once I return."
The chamber responded as one.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Every head bowed. Then, one by one, the figures dissolved into shadows and scattered void energy, leaving their seats empty. The faint purple light of the runes pulsed once, then dimmed.
Xeron stood alone in the vast circular chamber.
He stared into the darkness above, where the domed ceiling vanished into shadow.
A slow sigh escaped his lips.
The indifferent mask he had worn for the council slipped, leaving behind something tired, melancholic, and uncertain.
"...Mabel."
The name escaped his lips and hung in the empty air like a ghost.
"I..."
"I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?"
No answer came.
"..."
Xeron closed his eyes.
"...Right."
Xeron then opened his eyes.
The exhaustion and uncertainty that had clouded his features a moment ago vanished, replaced by a gaze of chilling clarity. The soft, melancholic weight in his chest didn’t disappear, but he pushed it down, burying it under a layer of frost.
His dark eyes were now filled with nothing but pure determination. The path was set, and the gears of the invasion had already begun to turn. Nothing could stop him from achieving his goal now.
Not the Council. Not the Sovereigns of Alverria.
Not even... Mabel herself.