Year - 7002 A.A. | Location: Valoria, Summit Hall of the Narn Lords.
The summit room breathed with old power.
Even in silence, it felt alive—ancient, watching, perhaps even remembering. The tall windows wore veils of hazy sunlight, painting golden streaks upon the marble floor like the fingers of dawn reaching through a weary world. The air was quiet, yet carried the charged weight of anticipation—like the last hush before a thunderclap.
Above them, the ceiling arched like the ribs of a great celestial beast, its stone vaults carved with the legends of the seven great clans—Kaplan, Maymum, Kurt, Boga, Fare, Kushan, and Deniz. Each engraving told a tale in relief: a tiger leaping over fire, a monkey vaulting between lightning bolts, a wolf howling beneath twin moons, a rodent in council with stars, and a stag standing unmoved amid storms. These were not just ornamental—they were vows in stone, stories that watched over the living.
At the center of the room stood the great circular table, carved from the wood of the First Tree of Narn—if legend was to be believed—and reinforced with mana that pulsed just faintly beneath its grain. It was a silent reminder: strength did not lie in brute force alone, but in unity, and the ancient will to protect what was good.
Around this sacred table sat the Narn Lords.
Some bore their titles like well-worn armor—comfortable, unyielding. Others seemed still unfamiliar with their seats, like children dressed in the robes of their fathers. But all of them had fought to be here.
The weight of the centuries hung thick in the air of the summit chamber.
Lord Thrax of the scaled, the eldest among them, leaned slowly back in his stone-carved chair—a thing shaped like a tide-worn reef, ancient and unyielding. His domed shell, polished by years of war and wind, caught a glint of the stained sunlight filtering through the windows. There was a gentleness in his motion, a deliberate slowness that came not from frailty but from the deep patience of those who've witnessed too much. His long fingers adjusted the faded robe of green and gray wrapped about him, the colors of coral, kelp, and stormy sea.
"It hasn't even been a year since the last summit," he murmured, mostly to himself. His voice was low, like waves rolling over a distant shore. "I'm getting too old for this."
No one answered. In that moment, it was not disrespect but reverence that filled the silence. Thrax was more than a Narn Lord—he was a relic of an older world, one many of them only knew through history songs and battle tales.
Across the wide, circular table carved from Mana-infused stone sat another figure—Lord Jeth, the Fare Lord. Rodent-born, rat-blooded, and devilishly clever, Jeth was not as old as Thrax, but neither was he young. He lounged with a casual grace, feet kicked up on a nearby stool, arms folded behind his head like he had all the time in the world. He was the sort of man who wore laziness like a cloak but wielded strategy like a hidden dagger.
A stalk of wheat lolled in the corner of his mouth, shifting lazily from side to side with each flick of his tongue. His eyes, however—sharp as thorns—never strayed from Kon. There was mischief there, yes, but also caution. Suspicion nestled just beneath the country charm.
"Alright then, Kaplan," Jeth drawled, the accent of open fields and furrowed farms coating every word. "Everything good with you? Or is there somethin' else goin' on under that pretty striped cape of yours?"
The room stirred slightly, the Lords leaning in with subtle shifts of posture. Kon's name carried weight—more so now than ever.
Kon Kaplan didn't flinch. He stood still, as though carved from bronze. The tiger-striped cloak hung over his tall frame like a banner of war, each line of fur bearing memory, each sword at his side whispering history. The younger Lord's expression was all stone—firm, unreadable, and fiercely collected.
"I wouldn't have called this summit if it wasn't necessary," he said, his voice like a blade drawn deliberately from its sheath. Every syllable echoed in the chamber, measured and quiet, but absolute.
And then the doors opened.
At once, the room shifted. The wind outside paused. Even the mana etched into the summit walls seemed to lean forward.
Lord Darius of the Boga Clan stepped through the archway, and with him came the gravity of kingship. His fur, a shade between sunlight and honeyed bronze, caught the morning rays and shimmered like sacred armor. His presence was impossible to ignore—not because he tried, but because nature itself seemed to part before him. There was command in his walk, nobility in his bearing, and untamed strength in the casual way he bore the massive hammer-axe, Baltaçek, across his back.
The weapon glowed faintly, as though greeting the summit in its own language.
Upon Darius's bare chest, the swirling sigil of the Boga Clan was inked in black and ochre, as though the markings themselves had grown from his flesh rather than been tattooed upon it. On his shoulder blazed the unmistakable mark of authority—Hazël #1, denoting his rank as First Lord. The strongest among equals.
"I apologize for the delay," Darius said, his voice carrying a tone that warmed and warned in equal measure. "I had to leave Velmar in quite a hurry when I received the summons."
He raised a hand, and in a breath, Baltaçek vanished into jade light. A flicker of raw power whispered through the room.
As he took his seat—carved from ivory stone and shaded with wild ox leather—Darius glanced around the circle, his gaze lingering just a moment longer on Kon.
"Let's begin."
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Summit Hall of Valoria, Archen Land | Year 7002 A.A.
Kon wasted no time. His voice rose into the sacred stillness of the summit chamber with the weight of long-formed conviction. There was no poetry in his speech, no dramatic flair—only the stripped-down edge of a blade long sharpened.
"For years, we've worked to weaken Razik's hold over Narn," he began. "We've fed his paranoia, drawn his forces to the borders, and made him believe an invasion from Archen Land was imminent."
He paused, allowing the gravity of his next words to settle like snowfall.
"That paranoia has made him reckless."
The gathered Lords exchanged glances. No one interrupted. Not even Lord Thrax, who now leaned forward, chin resting upon the wooden rim of his cane. Kon's words, though spoken without anger, carried a raw intensity that no one mistook for anything less than war.
"He's gathered the bulk of his forces near the border to stop us," Kon continued, each phrase clipped, clean, and deliberate. "He's left the inner lands hollow, drained. His defenses are stretched thin, his outer strongholds manned with soldiers who no longer know what they guard. Razik is exposed."
The silence in the room thickened, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Now was the moment of truth, and Kon delivered it without flinching.
"Now is the time to strike."
The words fell like stone upon still water. They rippled outward—not just into the minds of the Narn Lords, but into the legacy each one bore. Into their bloodlines, their people, their dead.
For the space of a breath, no one spoke.
Trevor's expression had shifted, the familiar humor gone from his features. He sat upright, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on Kon with silent understanding. Jeth removed the stalk of wheat from his mouth. Even Darius, ever the silent pillar, seemed to lean forward slightly, fingers pressed together in thought.
Kon didn't wait for permission to continue. His tone grew tighter, not with strain, but with purpose.
"If we take out his forces now," he said, his golden eye sweeping the table, "we will cripple his hold on Narn. The remaining lands will fall to us without resistance. The towns, the villages, the borderlands—they are all waiting to breathe again. They're tired of waiting for liberation that never comes."
He let those words hang for a heartbeat, then added with finality:
"Only the capital, Tradon, will remain."
The name struck a chord in every heart present. Tradon. The black root of Razik's dominion. The seat of his madness and malice. The city that had once been the jewel of Narn but now pulsed like a cancer in the heart of the realm.
In the minds of many, Tradon was no longer a place—it was a shadow.
Jeth leaned forward at last, his voice low. "That's a heavy claim, Kaplan. And a heavier risk. You sure about this timing?"
"I'm not sure," Kon admitted, his jaw tightening. "But I'm certain it's our only chance."
A simple statement. But within it lay a thousand unspoken truths. The war had already taken too much. Every delay cost lives they could no longer afford to lose. And beneath it all was the unrelenting rhythm of destiny—beating louder now.
Kon stood in silence, letting the words echo, letting the weight of them fall upon shoulders old and young alike.
He wasn't simply making a proposal.
He was drawing a line in the sand.
Lord Thrax tapped the base of his staff against the polished stone floor with a slow, measured rhythm, as if summoning his thoughts from deep within the earth. His aged eyes, dulled by time but still glinting with centuries of insight, swept across the chamber before settling on Kon.
"It sounds bold," he said at last, his voice worn like old wood but firm beneath the tremor. "But it's risky. Razik is no fool. He may have reinforcements tucked away like cards up his sleeve—forces we haven't accounted for. The Children of Shadow… and perhaps even other Hazëls." He leaned back in his chair, the weight of history pressing against his shoulders. "Are we prepared for that possibility?"
The question lingered in the air. Not an objection, but a warning. The sort that came from scars rather than doubt.
Kon did not bristle at the concern. Instead, he gave a solemn nod, his tone respectful but unwavering.
"That is why I propose we move carefully. Every move calculated. Every weakness exploited. Lord Talonir will act as our eyes in the sky. With his Arcem, he can see farther than any scout or spell. If reinforcements come—and they may—he will see them before they arrive."
He turned slightly, his golden gaze falling on Adam, who sat listening in grim silence.
"If reinforcements do arrive, Adam can teleport a secondary force to intercept them. Quickly. Without warning. He'll take with him a strike unit composed of prominent Lords who've faced the Children of Shadow before."
Adam gave a subtle nod, his eyes sharp beneath his usual ease. His fingers idly traced the pattern on the table, but his mind was already elsewhere—measuring distances, runes, time. He did not speak, but no one doubted he was already building the web of countermeasures in his head.
Lord Jeth shifted in his chair, the stalk of wheat bouncing lightly between his teeth. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And who's stayin' back here at the capital?" he asked, his voice low but deliberate. "Someone's gotta hold the bones of this place together if everything goes sideways."
Kon straightened, already prepared.
"We'll leave two Lords behind."
At the mention of names, the room leaned forward in subtle anticipation.
"One of them," Kon continued, "will be Darius, as King of Archen Land."
There was no argument. None dared question that. Darius was a fortress in the flesh, and his presence at Valoria was a shield in itself.
Before Kon could speak the second name, Trevor raised a hand with the ease of a child volunteering for mischief. A grin tugged at his lips, but his voice, when it came, bore none of its usual playfulness.
"I'll stay," he said simply.
The room turned to him. And for a moment, even Jeth's grin faded.
Trevor looked around the table and gave a small shrug. "Someone has to keep Darius company. Besides, I've got my own ways of keeping things lively back here." His eyes flicked to Kon, who gave a begrudging nod.
Darius spoke then, his voice deep and calm, like a mountain giving permission to be climbed. "Good," he said. "The capital must remain protected. If this campaign is to succeed, it must not be marred by fear at home. This plan"—his gaze swept the table, resting for a long pause on each Lord—"ensures that we have contingencies in place. That even if things grow dark, we will not be caught blind. The bulk of our strength will fall like a hammer upon Razik's forces. But our grip must not weaken here."
The air within the great hall shifted—barely perceptible at first, but unmistakable to those attuned to tension. A murmur moved like a ripple across the chamber, quiet and uncertain.
Lord Jeth, ever sharp and unflinching, leaned forward with a slow, deliberate motion. The corner of his mouth twitched around the stalk of wheat he had yet to remove, but the jest had left his voice. "Sounds solid, sure," he said, "but I can't shake the feelin' this could've waited till the next official meetin'. Callin' us here like this, on such short notice… somethin' ain't addin' up. Why now, Kaplan?"
The question landed like a pebble tossed into still water. It was not a rebuke—it was suspicion. And worse still, it was the kind that drew every gaze to follow it, like moss pulled to light.
Around the table, chairs creaked as Lords shifted subtly. Lord Thrax blinked once, his weathered eyes thoughtful. Darius remained silent, statuesque. Even Trevor, who usually punctuated such moments with a quip or a smirk, said nothing. Instead, his brow furrowed as he glanced toward Kon.
But it was Adam—always quiet when the room was loud—whose attention sharpened like a blade. His azure eyes, lit with the faintest ethereal sheen, had been watching Kon throughout. Not with suspicion, but with the silent patience of someone who knew that a friend was wrestling with something buried.
Kon's jaw tensed. He held still for a moment, motionless as stone, his tiger-striped mantle hanging from his shoulders like the legacy it carried. Then, with a slow inhale and a breath that seemed to cost him something, he turned his gaze to the guards stationed at the massive doors.
"Bring her in," he said quietly.
The words echoed with more gravity than their volume suggested. The guards gave a quick nod and stepped out.
The great hall fell still.
Then—creak.
The doors parted, casting a long shadow across the gleaming floor. And into that shadow stepped a figure so unexpected, so impossible, that even the old stone of the walls seemed to lean inward to bear witness.
She was small—not in height, but in bearing. Her steps were hesitant, each one taken as if unsure whether she belonged in the world she had just entered. Her fur, once surely regal, was dulled and matted with dirt and wear. A ragged hood hung from her shoulders, and the faint tremble in her arms betrayed days—or perhaps years—of captivity.
She did not speak.
She did not need to.
A gasp swept across the chamber as recognition dawned in stages, like the slow rising of a moon behind clouded skies. Eyes widened. Backs straightened. Even the Lords who had lived through war and watched cities fall found themselves at a loss.
For the first time in generations, another Tiger Tracient stood before them.
She blinked at the room, her gaze flitting from one face to another. Her breath was quick, shallow. But when her eyes met Kon's, her steps slowed. Her shoulders straightened just enough to remind the world that blood remembered its origin, even when lost.
Kon stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He offered her a hand—not with grandeur or declaration, but with a quiet steadiness that anchored her.
She took it.
Gasps became murmurs. Murmurs became silence once again.
Lord Thrax leaned heavily on his staff, his brow furrowed deeper than it had in decades. "Is this… truly what I think it is?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Trevor whistled under his breath, but the jest never came. "I thought all of them were gone," he murmured. "We all did."
Lord Jeth's wheat stalk finally fell from his lips.
Kon looked over his shoulder, his voice calm, but pulsing with something deeper—urgency, certainty, maybe even hope. "This is Tigrera. She was found among Razik's slave captives. Hidden. Broken. But alive."
"She bears the blood of the Kaplan Clan," Darius added, his deep voice resonant as thunder in a canyon. "And if that is true, it changes everything.".
Lord Jeth was no longer lounging. The country-drawl in his voice remained, but the ease had drained from it. His sharp rodent eyes studied Tigrera not as one might study an enemy—but as a historian might examine a forgotten relic too precious to mishandle and too dangerous to trust at once.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on the edge of the carved table. "Who are you?" he asked, not unkindly, but with steel behind the question. "Where've you been all this time?"
Tigrera's mouth parted slightly. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, fear seemed to close her throat. She looked to Kon.
His hand was already there—open, steady.
She took it.
And that, more than her words, answered much. The tremble in her fingers eased. She drew in a breath that felt like her first, her eyes flicking around the room at the array of faces—lords, kings, warriors of renown, legends made flesh—and then, at last, settled back on Jeth.
"My name… is Tigrera," she said quietly. "That's… that's all I know."
The honesty in her voice rang like a glass bell. Fragile, but true.
There was no grand declaration, no forgotten prophecy recalled or secret name uttered. Just a girl stripped of history, standing in a hall filled with power. Yet somehow, she held her ground—not through pride, but through sheer presence.
Kon stepped forward beside her, the movement gentle but firm, like a wall of wind parting the cold. "She's the reason I called this summit," he said. His voice had changed now—not just the tone, but the weight. It was not the clipped authority of a military commander, nor the cold bark of an elite warrior. It was personal.
"If there is one Tiger Tracient still alive," he continued, "there may be more. And if Tigers were hidden, then others could be too. Wolves— he looked at Adam—-. Falcons. Panthers. The broken tribes. The forgotten bloodlines. There may be captives we haven't even imagined, waiting for rescue… or for vengeance."
His words settled on the room like snow upon branches—not loud, but undeniable.
No one answered immediately. Even Trevor, whose jokes could always be counted on to fill a silence, was quiet now. His eyes flicked toward Adam.
Adam hadn't spoken at all.
And that in itself was rare.
He sat still, hands steepled before his lips, blue eyes locked on Kon and Tigrera. The room around him stirred with motion—chairs scraping, cloaks swishing, blades shifting in sheathes as Lords began to rise—but Adam remained perfectly still. Thoughtful. Searching.
There was something in the way Kon stood beside her. Something in the way her fingers clung to his. Not merely gratitude. Not merely protection. But something more.
Adam's heart tugged in a direction he did not recognize.
And did not welcome.
His mind darted through possibilities, calculations, memories. She had said her name. That was all. No detail, no record. Nothing but that—and still, Kon had believed her. Had staked a summit on her.
Had touched her with a softness Adam had never seen in him.
And that softness unsettled Adam more than any enemy blade.
Still seated, Darius rose.
The Bull Lord, golden and solemn, his shadow stretching long behind him as he stepped forward. Every eye turned.
"We proceed as planned," Darius said. His voice was deep as the roots of mountains. "The forces of Razik have stood long enough. The chains of Narn have rattled in the cold far too long. Now is the time to strike—not merely to take back land, but to take back truth."
He raised his fist.
"Prepare your armies. We march to war."
The hall erupted.
Chairs thundered back. Voices raised like banners in the wind. Lords cried out, their war chants echoing against the vaulted walls. Swords clanged in honor. The ancient cry of unity, lost for generations, found breath again:
"For Asalan! For Narn!"
The chorus roared, shaking even the pillars that remembered the First War. It was a sound older than language—half hope, half wrath. The sound of people remembering who they were.
Tigrera flinched at the noise, eyes wide. But Kon leaned close and whispered something, inaudible to the others, and her breathing calmed.
Amidst it all, Adam did not move.
His hands, still steepled, pressed tighter now.
He did not look at Darius. Or at Jeth. Or even at Trevor, who was already throwing out commands to nearby aides.
His eyes never left Kon.
Or the girl beside him.
He watched the way her presence had cracked open something in his friend. The way her arrival had shifted everything—not just this room, but something deeper.
And somewhere in the depths of Adam's soul—far beneath the loyalty, beneath the friendship, beneath even the memory of battle—something stirred. Not hatred. Not even jealousy.
But caution.
Something wasn't right.
And though he could not say why, he knew one thing with quiet, unshakable certainty:
This… was only the beginning.