The chamber inside Castle Eldros was quiet but alive. Sunlight streamed through tall stained-glass windows, casting fragmented scenes of the last great war across the stone table, depicting broken swords, victorious figures wearing crowns, and retreating armies. Parchments, maps, and wax-sealed letters cluttered the surface, their corners curling in the warmth.

  King Thalen stood at the head of the table, not with the authority of a ruler but with the brittle stillness of a man held together by duty alone. His hands gripped the edge as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The documents in front of him blurred together; he wasn’t reading them. Not for some time. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with shadows, and fixed on nothing.

  The tea beside him had gone cold hours ago. He hadn’t touched it. Maybe he forgot it was there.

  Across from him, the semicircle of advisors, mages, generals, and priests sat with their backs perfectly straight, their silence heavy. The tension in the room wasn’t fear; it was anticipation. Tense. Breathless. As if everyone feared that saying it aloud would make it true.

  Thalen’s voice finally cracked through the silence. Rough. Dry. As if he hadn’t spoken in days.

  “General,” he said, eyes locking on Kitch. “Any word?”

  The pause that followed was too long. It was too revealing.

  “No, my lord,” came the answer, weighed down by unspoken words.

  Thalen inhaled slowly and shallowly. He didn’t nod or blink. He stood there, gathering what little strength he had left. Sleep had forsaken him days ago, maybe weeks. What haunted him wasn’t just memory; it was recognition.

  The Engineers are back.

  Why now?

  Why this one?

  And why here?

  The nightmare his family had once helped shape began to stir again. The large chamber’s doors opened with a creaking noise as a guard entered a few steps.

  “Announcing Queen Aleryn of Karethuun and the prime minister of Ironholt.”

  A woman strode behind the guard, looking every bit the monarch, despite the dust of the road still clinging to her boots. Queen Aleryn of Karethuun wore her travel cloak open, the deep green fabric lined with silver thread, dirt-speckled at the hem but perfectly arranged. Underneath, a fitted leather jerkin suggested the armor of someone who didn’t rely on others to keep her safe. Her gloves were tucked into her belt, and her riding trousers had creases sharp enough to cut.

  A thin circlet rested on her brow, more practical from her travels than ceremonial, but it caught the stained-glass light just enough to remind the room of who she was. Her hair was pulled back into a functional braid, with wisps escaping from the ride. None of this lessened the intensity in her eyes. She surveyed the chamber as if she owned it, then moved forward confidently, leaving a trail of wind and leather scent.

  Following her was the Prime Minister, still tugging at the buttons of his overcoat and muttering about the castle’s “provincial chill.” He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and lagged behind the queen’s sparse retinue, already several steps behind her entrance.

  Aleryn didn’t wait for introductions. She strode across the chamber purposefully, her eyes locked on King Thalen. When she reached the table, she grabbed a folded parchment from a surprised aide’s hands without so much as a glance.

  “So, Thalen,” she said coolly, unfolding the page. “What’s the reason for this summons? And why send it in code?”

  Thalen didn’t flinch. “Good morning, Elsie. It’s been a while. Since the wedding last summer, wasn’t it? That celebration was marvelous.”

  “Don’t try small talk with me, Theodore.” Her voice cut like cold steel. “Dragging me halfway across the realm in the middle of the night isn’t the best way to check in on our children. So, tell me what this is really about? Where you finally say, The time has come; I need you?”

  The room started to stir. Two aides rushed in to arrange chairs, positioning them just off the head of the table, not beside the king, but not too far away either. The seating, like everything in Eldros, reflected unspoken hierarchies.

  Queen Aleryn sat with the grace of someone used to commanding, adjusting her cloak without ceremony. Prime Minister Halbrecht followed, muttering as he tried to fold his coat behind him and fit his broad frame into the carved chair.

  King Thalen finally sat down in his seat, his fingers wrapping around a mug of tea that had long since cooled. He didn’t drink from it; he simply held it, as if the memory of warmth still gave him some comfort. Nodding slightly, he turned to the man to his right.

  “General Kitch. Bring them up to date.”

  The general stood with practiced precision, one hand behind his back. His armor wasn’t decorative; it was scuffed and worn, the kind that belonged to a man who still trained at dawn. His voice was gravelly and commanding.

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  “Seven days ago, we detected movement near the northern edges of Vaelthorn. There’s a report of a rift and possible intrusion. We’re still working to understand how or what. But one of the old signals was triggered. The Council of Vaelthorn has activated treaty protocols and requested assistance.”

  He paused and looked at the king. Thalen gave a weary nod.

  “And that’s not all,” Kitch continued. “The stars in the rotunda of Everticatt have shifted.”

  A silence followed. Heavy. Not confused, but understanding.

  Only a few people in the room even knew what the rotunda was, and now every pair of eyes was on the general, the air tense like a drawn bowstring.

  Queen Aleryn spoke first.

  “So,” she said slowly, “you’re telling me we may have demons breaching the northern edges of the realm and worse, that the Engineers have returned?”

  “Yes.”

  The word hung in the air like a dropped blade.

  No one spoke for a long moment. Even the fluttering of parchment on the table seemed suddenly too loud.

  Prime Minister Halbrecht was the first to break the silence, his voice incredulous. “That’s not possible. The last Engineer left over two centuries ago. Their knowledge was lost.”

  “Lost,” came a soft voice from the far end of the table, “doesn’t mean destroyed.” The Arch Mage spoke without lifting his gaze. His hands were steepled, and his eyes were half-lidded beneath the deep shadow of his hood. “And knowledge has a way of resurfacing when the world is least ready to face it.”

  King Thalen leaned back in his chair and finally took a sip of the lukewarm tea. “We don’t know who he is. Not yet. But all signs point west to Vaelthorn. That’s where it all started.”

  Queen Aleryn’s gaze drifted down the table, resting on the man cloaked in deep crimson and silver, High Priest Callion. His expression had stayed the same since he entered the chamber: calm, unreadable, like a stone wrapped in silk.

  “High Priest,” she said, her tone even but unmistakably sharp, “how does the Church stand on this? The return of the Engineers, is it heresy, prophecy, or something worse?”

  Callion folded his hands over the parchment in front of him. His voice when he spoke was quiet, not soft, but restrained, as if burdened by consequences.

  “We have long taught that the age of Engineers was a closed chapter. Their return was neither expected nor welcomed. While their methods were suspect in ending the last great war, they were not, let’s say, kind.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “But prophecy does not ask for permission.”

  He glanced at Thalen, then at the Arch Mage. “We are reviewing some texts. Not all signs are metaphors. Not all myths stay buried.”

  Then, speak softer and more intentionally: “The Engineers wield the third sphere of magic. We’ve spent generations pretending it was gone. It is difficult not to feel the pull of the legends. And the danger they bring with them.”

  Aleryn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The third sphere,” she repeated. “Most of this table isn’t trained in the arcane, High Priest. Let’s not speak in riddles.”

  She turned toward the figure cloaked in dark blue and silver, whose silence until now had been almost monastic. “Arch Mage Veralt, indulge us. What is the third sphere, truly? And if it has returned, what does that mean?”

  The Arch Mage lifted his gaze. “The first two spheres,” he said calmly, “are well known: the elemental and the divine. Fire and water, life and death. They can be studied, harnessed. Taught.” He folded his hands. “The third was different. Not born of nature or spirit, but of logic. Pattern. Intention made real through calculation. The Engineers didn’t cast spells, they built them.” A beat of silence followed. “They were not mages. They were something else.”

  Prime Minister Halbrecht chuckled softly, brushing a speck of lint off his sleeve. “Then let’s find this Engineer and recruit him. If the legends are even half true, he’ll be formidable. Fine. Pay him.”

  The room stayed still, but the air felt more tense.

  Veralt didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

  “Engineers don’t need coin,” The Arch Mage said. “They can fabricate gold, transmute it, and print it if given enough time. To them, currency is a tool, not a motivation.” He leaned forward slightly, shadows shifting under his hood. “What they value is far more dangerous: autonomy, knowledge, and the means to reshape the world.”

  King Thalen set his cup down with a quiet click. “Enough theory,” he said. “We can’t afford to debate philosophy while a potential Engineer walks free, unaware or not.”

  He looked toward General Kitch. “We need to find him. Quietly. Before word spreads and every throne, cult, and scavenger in the realm starts looking for him, too.”

  Aleryn folded the parchment she still held. “And what if it is him? What if he’s already started to act?”

  Thalen looked at the stained-glass reflections pooling on the war table.

  “Then the age of Engineers hasn’t returned,” he said. “It’s already here.”

  The three monarchs and their senior advisors gathered around the map. Its surface was now cluttered with strategic markers, flags, tokens, and thin lines of ink stretching from Eldros toward Vaelthorn. Sunlight cast longer shadows through the stained-glass panels, intensifying the room’s tension. Thalen pointed to a circled area in the center of Vaelthorn.

  This is where we believe the signal is pointing,” he says. “It could be misdirection, or it might be our first chance.

  Aleryn leans over the map. “If this Engineer exists, and he’s close to Vaelthorn’s heart, we won’t be the only ones searching. They won’t share him.”

  Halbrecht crosses his arms. “Then we don’t ask. We act. Quietly, decisively.”

  Thalen looked around the table. Kitch nodded. “I’ll send a discreet scout team to Vaelthorn. Skilled trackers, no insignia. They’ll observe, confirm, and report. No contact unless we give the word.”

  They all nod, not perfectly in sync but in agreement. There’s an unspoken rule among them: if this Engineer can shift the balance, none of them can afford to stay idle. As the meeting concludes, a senior priest, who stood near the High Priest, quietly excuses himself and leaves the chamber.

  He moves through the stone hallways of Castle Eldros with the focus of a man on a mission. His robes barely make a sound as they brush against the polished floors. No guards stop him. No courtiers acknowledge him.

  Outside, early dusk settles over the castle grounds as he passes through the side gate and heads into the nearby church district. The old cathedral looms ahead, carved from shadow and moonlight. Inside, candles flicker and incense smolders. The priest kneels before a figure shrouded in red vestments, the Bishop of Eldros.

  “It’s true,” the priest whispers. “They believe an Engineer has returned.”

  The bishop’s silence is cold, heavy.

  “Blasphemy,” he mutters. “To call that magic ‘engineering.’ A godless system that obeys no divine will.”

  He stands, straightens his robes.

  “Tell the Circle quietly. We won't let a second age of blasphemers happen. We eliminate it now before the world remembers.”