B7 - Chapter 22: A Dance of Knives (Patreon)

The great hall rose before Margret like a monument to neutrality. Pillars of white marble veined with gold stretched toward a vaulted ceilin

The great hall rose before Margret like a monument to neutrality. Pillars of white marble veined with gold stretched toward a vaulted ceiling that seemed to capture and amplify every whispered word. She adjusted her robes for the third time, the gossamer fabric still feeling foreign against her skin despite the months she'd spent among the Children of the Tree.

"Stop fidgeting," Lyriel murmured beside her, the elf's voice carrying that particular blend of fondness and exasperation Margret had grown accustomed to. "You'll wrinkle the silk."

She forced her hands to stillness, though her fingers itched to smooth the fabric again. Around them, the elven delegation moved with liquid grace toward their designated section of the hall.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on her.

Her lord, who had orchestrated so much, was barred from these proceedings while she, a nobody, had been granted entry. She touched the metal pin at her throat, the mark of her temporary status within the Goldleaf household. It felt heavier than it should.

"Remember," Matriarch Goldleaf said softly as they took their seats, her voice meant only for their small group, "Words spoken matter far less than those left unsaid."

Margret nodded, trying to quell the nervous energy that made her want to shift in her seat. She'd attended elven councils, weathered their polite condescension and layered conversations, but this was different. This was the continental stage, where a misplaced word could shift the balance of power.

Not long after they had taken their seats, the Empire's delegation entered with military precision: six in total.

Otto Geistreich led them, his bearing that of a man who had navigated these waters for decades. The four Elders flanked him: Windtänzer, Feuerkranz, Wellenrufer, and Steiner. Seeing these legendary figures of the Empire once more gave Margret a strange feeling. Once, she had looked up to them as heroes.

They were widely known as the pillars of the Empire, recognized for their might and contributions. Even though they were no longer the nominal leaders of their families, everyone knew they were the true movers and shakers. These titans were the men and women upon whom the Empire’s foundation had been built.

Her gaze met that of Victor Windtänzer, the Elder of Wind. His expression changed slightly upon seeing her. Victor had been like a brother to Maximilian. Naturally, he would recognize her, even dressed in the garb of the elven people. His gaze didn’t linger on her for long, though, returning soon after to his watchful observation of his surroundings.

The last member of their group drew Margret's attention last: Azra von Hohenheim.

To see the nominal heir to the von Hohenheim name in person felt almost surreal. Who was this stranger who claimed to succeed Maximilian while walking hand in hand with his murderers? It was absurd.

Margret studied him closely. The man was young and handsome, that much she had to admit. He had flowing auburn locks and strong brows, framing a symmetrical face. In a way, he reminded her of Ezekiel. Yet where her lord's presence commanded through conviction and barely restrained intensity, Azra's seemed all polish and calculated charm.

It was like comparing a trained seductress to a natural beauty. While they both shared the same attractive features, Azra clearly knew how to wield those traits as weapons, while Ezekiel barely acknowledged his own charms.

The young man seemed to notice her gaze as he turned to look at her. A polite smile, a slight nod, and then he continued to go about his business, dismissing her from his concerns as if she weren’t worth a second glance. Clearly, he didn’t know who she was. Or who she served.

During this time, the Alliance representatives had already taken their seats. The Storm Exarch sat with the stillness of a gathering thundercloud. His dark hair and brown skin marked him as a Korrovan native, and the faint scent of ozone followed him like a shadow.

Beside him, the Light Exarch of Equinox practically vibrated with contained energy, her jaw set in a way that suggested she was anticipating conflict. The woman looked so much like Lara Sonnenstrahl that Margret found it eerie to look at her—same face, same figure, the same flowing blonde hair and radiant golden eyes. The two could have been sisters, though she knew that was impossible.

Aurelia Thorsten occupied the space between them like a bridge between extremes. It was the first time she had seen this legendary figure in person. The Immortal Witch, the undisputedly strongest Archmage on the continent, and the only known person with two perfect affinities.

Her face was delicate and as pale as a corpse, her colorless hair only deepening that impression. On each of her shoulders sat a raven. Her famous familiars: Aether and Nexus. One was completely white, with a black beak, and the other completely black with a white beak.

Out of everyone in the hall, she was by far the most eye-catching, despite being the only Archmage among Exarchs. If that disadvantage bothered her, she gave no sign. Her pale hands rested calmly on the table, but Margret noticed how her eyes tracked every movement in the room.

The dwarven delegation had claimed their section with typical efficiency. Lord Stoneforge's ancient presence made the other Exarchs seem young, his beard woven with mithril threads that caught the light. The way he studied each arriving delegation reminded Margret of a smith examining metal for flaws.

Each of these people held the power and status to be the center of attention no matter where they went. Yet today, all these titans of the continent had gathered in a single location. Each came with their own intentions, their own plans for how this meeting would end. It remained to be seen who would come out on top and who would go home with a sour feeling in their bellies. It was like an invisible game of chess, where every word and gesture counted as a move.

A subtle shift in the air announced the entrance of the final participant. Sheol Veylor entered, their stride as casual as if they were on their way to a picnic. The childish form they had chosen sparked murmurs throughout the hall—such innocent features housing such ancient power. The small figure skipped to an isolated chair set apart from the factioned seating, grey eyes taking in everything while revealing nothing.

Margret had heard stories of the King of the Dead, naturally, but they had always sounded like cautionary tales and overstated legends to her growing up. But to see the most powerful figures on the continent unwilling to even meet eyes with this being sent a shiver down her spine.

The only one who even acknowledged their presence was Aurelia Thorsten, who had gotten up from her seat and gave a reverent bow. It seemed the stories were true. The immortal witch truly had some sort of relationship with the ruler of the Deadlands.

King Midas entered last, accompanied by three hooded figures. Not only he, but all four of them wore clothing that completely obscured the senses, making it impossible to get a read on any of them. However, Margret would bet her last shirt that these were the three Exarchs of Tradespire.

Midas took his seat at the head of the assembly, not elevated above the others, but positioned to see all. The three figures arranged themselves behind him, their presence a quiet reminder of Tradespire's strength.

"We gather to address the deployment of an Exarch in active warfare," Midas began without preamble. "The first such use since the Accord of Limitation. Chancellor Geistreich, the floor is yours."

Otto rose smoothly, his movements measured. "The Empire's position rests on clear legal foundation. The Accord of Limitation, which we have honored faithfully for over two centuries, is explicitly a compact between signatories. We have the documents here if any wish to review the specific language."

He gestured to a stack of papers before him, the gesture somehow making his argument feel more grounded in fact than rhetoric.

"When elven forces moved to intervene in our operations," Otto continued, "we faced a difficult choice. Allow interference that could cost thousands of our soldiers' lives, or respond with proportional force. We chose the latter."

"Proportional?" The Light Exarch's voice cut sharply. "Ten thousand dead is what you call proportional?"

"With respect," Azra von Hohenheim interjected, "a warning was given, even a second chance to retreat. No pursuit of fleeing forces. No expansion of engagement beyond the immediate threat. We sought to end the confrontation, not to maximize casualties."

Margret watched how he presented the argument: reasonable, measured, almost apologetic. It was far more convincing than bluster would have been. The second thing she noticed was how smoothly the young man had interjected himself into the conversation. This was clearly not a place for him to speak; even Otto himself barely qualified. Yet his earnest demeanor had somehow managed to gloss over that fact, as no one seemed to have taken offense at his words.

"The Empire recognizes," Otto continued, "that this situation highlights a gap in our continental agreements. We are prepared to work with all parties to address this. The Accord could even be amended, expanded to include all peoples of the continent."

"You forget to mention the reason only our human nations were signatories in the first place," Bijal Raja, the Storm Exarch, observed. "Unlike us, who are roughly on par in strength, the Matriarchy has at least a dozen Exarchs under its banner. Why would they subject themselves to the same restrictions we initiated to prevent mutual destruction?"

"Then let us write a new accord," Otto suggested. "The Empire is prepared to host negotiations, to fund scholarly research on terms that would be equitable for all."

"And in the meantime?" Aurelia Thorsten asked, her pale hands still on the table. "Your armies burn through Rukia while you speak of negotiations."

"These matters are inherently separate," Azra replied calmly. "We cannot allow past grievances to prevent future cooperation. The Empire offers a path forward. Will others not even consider it?"

Matriarch Goldleaf had remained silent through the opening exchanges, her expression serene. Now she spoke, each word precise as drops of morning dew.

"The Empire offers inclusion in a framework of its own design. How generous." Her tone carried no obvious sarcasm, yet somehow the words stung. "Tell me, Chancellor, if we deployed an Exarch against the Empire, would your arguments remain the same? Would we remain outsiders to the accord then?"

"The law applies equally to all," Otto replied steadily. "If humans invaded elven territory without treaty protection, the defenders would have every right to respond in whatever way you see fit."

"You invaded our brethren," Goldleaf countered. "You could not have expected us to sit still after that.”

"The historical record shows—" Azra began.

“Silence, child,” Goldleaf interrupted gently, her voice like that of a disappointed mother. “The adults are speaking.” Her eyes remained on Otto Geistreich, demanding an answer.

“The half elves might be your kin in blood, but not in spirit,” he said, meeting her gaze. “By joining the alliance of nations, they have chosen a side. Is the Matriarchy prepared to make the same choice by stepping into this conflict?”

All eyes turned to Lady Goldleaf.

If the elves truly declared support for the Alliance, then it would have been like an unexpected present. No, more than that. It would likely spell the end of the war.

Lady Goldleaf didn’t meet any of their gazes, refusing to answer entirely.

The representatives of the Alliance reacted in different ways. Aurellia simply looked away, her face an emotionless mask. The Exarch of Storms sighed, while the ruler of Equinox clicked her tongue, her eyes blazing.

"The Empire welcomes all good-faith negotiations," Otto said, filling the silence. "We have prepared preliminary proposals that we believe address the major concerns—"

"I'm sure you have," the Light Exarch cut in. "The Empire always prepares thoroughly before it acts. Like preparing legal justifications before deploying Exarchs. An Exarch, by the way, you have hidden from the public eye. Care to explain who that was?"

The temperature in the room shifted slightly. Margret felt the tensions building like pressure before a storm.

"We prepared nothing," Azra said with apparent sincerity. Despite having been reprimanded earlier, the confidence with which he spoke had not diminished. "The situation developed rapidly. Our forces were threatened. We responded with the minimum force necessary to ensure their safety. That we did so within legal boundaries is not evidence of premeditation but of consistent adherence to law."

"…Minimum force," Aurelia repeated flatly. "An interesting characterization of an Exarch's power."

"Would the Marshal have preferred we deploy an army? Risk greater casualties on both sides?" Azra asked. "The Exarch ended the confrontation quickly, with survivors able to withdraw. This was mercy, not massacre."

"You speak of mercy while your armies slaughter civilians," the Storm Exarch observed.

"A separate matter," Azra replied. "One we are also prepared to discuss, though it falls outside the scope of this hearing."

"A separate matter, yet nonetheless connected," Goldleaf reminded softly. "The Empire's actions in Rukia prompted our intervention. Your response to that intervention brings us here. To separate these threads is to willfully blind ourselves to the pattern."

"What pattern does the Matriarch see?" Otto asked with what seemed like genuine curiosity.

"I see your people testing boundaries," she replied. "Seeing how far it can push before something snaps."

"Or perhaps," Otto suggested carefully, "you see a nation struggling to maintain stability in an increasingly dangerous world. Our proposals for expanded accords, for inclusion of all peoples: these are not the actions of aggressors but of those seeking lasting peace."

“You aim to shackle us with word and law,” Goldleaf said. “Knowing fully well that the chosen of Yggdrasil will never agree to your terms.”

The arguments continued, each side probing and testing, neither giving ground nor escalating too far. Margret's head swam as she tried to follow the implications, the subtle verbal traps, and careful redirections. Her lord would have seen patterns she was missing, would have understood the deeper game being played.

One thing that stood out, though, was the interplay between Otto Geistreich and Azra von Hohenheim. The two acted in perfect synchrony: Otto, always on the offensive, and Azra playing defense. Together, they formed an impenetrable bulwark, offering responses to every accusation while exposing every flaw in their opponents' arguments.

As the hours wore on, she noticed how Sheol Veylor remained absolutely still, those grey eyes in a child's face watching everything while contributing nothing. Their presence was like a weight in the room—acknowledged but never directly addressed, as if the other powers had silently agreed to pretend that particular force of nature wasn't sitting among them.

"…The dwarven kingdoms need guarantees," Lord Stoneforge added. "Words on paper didn't protect the elves. Why should they protect us?"

"Because we would all be signatories," Azra said earnestly. "All bound by the same terms. The old divisions would be replaced by universal law."

"Universal law written by whom?" the Light Exarch demanded. "Interpreted by whom? Enforced by whom?"

"By all of us," Otto said. "That is what we propose: true collaboration."

“That is why nobody trusts your Empire, Geistreich,” the Light Exarch said, shaking her head. “No matter how good your words sound, we all know what they truly are: a mask you wear while sharpening your knife.”

The arguments had come full circle. Positions had been stated, probed, and defended. No one had given ground, but neither had anyone escalated to irreparable hostility.

Midas, who had remained silent throughout, finally spoke. "The positions are clear. The Empire offers legal justification and future cooperation. Others question both the justification and the sincerity. Progress today seems unlikely."

It wasn't a dismissal, merely an observation. But the various delegations took it as such, beginning to gather their papers and prepare to leave.

"We reconvene tomorrow," Midas added. "I trust all parties will consider what movements might break this deadlock."

As Margret filed out with the elven delegation, she caught sight of Azra von Hohenheim again. He was speaking quietly with Otto, and for just a moment, his polished diplomatic mask slipped. The expression beneath wasn't satisfaction exactly, but something close, as if the day's stalemate had been precisely what he'd hoped for.

She thought of her lord, excluded from these proceedings, and wondered what he would make of it all. The Empire had presented itself as reasonable, offering solutions rather than threats. It was a more dangerous approach than belligerence would have been, wrapping ambition in the cloak of cooperation.

The dance of knives had begun with words of silk. Tomorrow, she suspected, the blades would begin to show.