Moments later,
The echo of Lumira's words struck the marble floor like a blade drawn across stone.
"I ask for the Wastelands of Nespresso - my dowry once promised to the House of Fenrir. Restore it to my name." she repeated, her voice cutting through the ancient air of the Chamber of Aethelred.
Silence fell, but it was not empty, but predatory.
Even the torches lining the obsidian pillars seemed to bow their flames, as though uncertain whether to bear witness or die. The air thickened; the scent of parchment and old blood clung to the space like a suffocating shroud.
In the tiered balconies above, the hundreds of assembled nobles and senators froze mid-breath. The rustle of silk and the flutter of jeweled fans ceased entirely, the weight of history and unspoken terror pressing into every corner of the vast, circular hall.
From the heart of the crescent dais, a low feral growl began. It was Kaelen Ironfang, the Alpha Werewolf Marshal, and the sound rolled through the silence like distant thunder, shaking the very bones of the chamber.
Beside him, Asmodan Veythar, the Demon Minister of Pacts, allowed his eternal smile to finally fade, curiosity and something anciently cruel sharpening behind his infernal eyes.
Meanwhile, Morthos Gravemind's bone pen, poised over a massive ledger, halted mid-scratch, leaving a trail of shimmering bone dust suspended in the torchlight. And at the central pinnacle, Lord Dexter Valerius, High Vampire Chancellor, straightened slowly in his throne of onyx and moonsteel, his crimson eyes glinting with quiet dangerous amusement, sensing a shift in the political landscape that promised blood and entertainment.
Finally, Selena Moondrake, Witch High Regent of the Silver Courts, tilted her head. Her voice slithered through the charged silence, silk and venom expertly entwined.
"You seek the cursed lands?" she asked, one brow arched in theatrical disbelief. "The graveyard of empires? You wish to rule over that ruin which our greatest magicians could not contain?"
Lumira did not bow nor did she blink. Her white hair, wet with the morning's mist, caught the torchlight like slick oil, and her purple eyes, currently focused by Rina's icy resolve, gleamed with defiance.
"I don't want to rule," she replied evenly, her voice steady against the weight of a thousand judging gazes. "I wish to rebuild it."
A ripple of sharp whispers fractured the quiet like shattering glass. Even Nymera of the Veil, the timeless Oracle whose sightless eyes contained swirling galaxies, lifted her veiled head, her attention seized by the audacity.
For the first time in centuries, the air of the Chamber of Aethelred moved - not just with politics, but alive with the potential for prophecy and peril.
Selena's laughter was a blade drawn slow, thin and maliciously amused.
"Rebuild a sudden desert that devoured kings and gods alike? The Wastelands have consumed mana and gold for the past five years, Lumira. Tell us, Witch - what esoteric wisdom could you possibly find in that dust that justifies this incredible expense of a reward?"
Lumira's lips curved faintly, a gesture that was more predatory than a smile.
"Memory, heritage, and legacy."
Those three words were enough to kill the nervous laughter; even the restless, circulating air hesitated.
The Council shifted uneasily as everyone knew the brutal truth. Seven years ago, once, the Wastelands of Nespresso had been an ancient, pristine paradise: emerald rivers, orchards that sang under moonlight, and crystal lakes that healed. It had been her dowry, promised to Alpha Jaxon Fenrir as the seal of a powerful necessary alliance. The night he publicly rejected her before the Empire, Jaxon had taken her pride, ruined her name, and abandoned her land. He had declared it cursed, and her bloodline unworthy, so it was too much of a big shock when the abandoned oasis began to mysteriously deteriorate. Now the Witch had returned from the dead to reclaim both the territory and her dignity.
Jaxon's grandfather, Alpha Kaelen Ironfang, the Wolf Marshal, could not hold his peace. He rose with the palpable weight of thunder, the sudden sound of his armored form scraping against his throne.
"You overstep, girl. That land was ceded by treaty when my grandson—"
But Lord Valerius's voice cut through him, cold and exquisitely controlled.
"Enough."
The word struck the Wolf Marshal like an iron fist. Kaelen's snarl died instantly in his throat, replaced by a mixture of shock and suppressed rage. Valerius leaned forward in his seat, the light glinting dangerously off his fangs, his expression one of bored authority.
"If my memory hasn't waned, Lord Kaelen, the dowry was never ratified after the union failed. Nor were the associated goods - the vast mana stones, or the sealed vaults of pure celestial gold - ever returned to the House of Duskbane."
A chorus of shocked murmurs rippled through the Senate tiers; the value of those assets was legendary. Kaelen's jaw flexed, but Valerius's tone grew softer and crueler, like a lethal velvet glove over a steel blade.
"Consider yourself profoundly fortunate, old wolf. The White Witch could very easily demand back the gold and the mana stones. Yet she asks only for land your house abandoned and publicly denounced as toxic waste dump. If that is not mercy…" He paused, allowing his smile to bloom, sharp as fate. "Then what is it, exactly, that you fear?"
"You defend her, Lord Chancellor?" Selena's jeweled fingers tightened visibly against the obsidian armrest of her throne.
"I defend law," Valerius murmured, his crimson gaze never leaving Kaelen.
"And perhaps justice. This Council is bound by both, Lady Regent."
Lumira's gaze flicked to Valerius. In his predatory crimson eyes, she thought she saw it - not simple recognition of her, but a shared, knowing appreciation for political strategy. Or perhaps it was a flicker of guilt for a past error he now sought to rectify.
From his seat, Asmodan Veythar chuckled darkly, tapping his clawed fingers against his lips. His garnet eyes were calculating the new variables.
"She asks for land that cannot be tamed by any known magical process. Either she is quite mad - or she is brilliant enough to deceive us all, which is the higher compliment."
Lord Varion, the beast-blooded Hunter of the Crimson Hunt, leaned back, his amber eyes glittering with a reckless, sporting interest.
"Let her try. The sands of Nespresso will drink her bones before the next full moonrise, and the problem will solve itself."
Lumira turned her gaze on the Hunter, her chin lifting in cold, dismissive contempt.
"Then may the sands have me," she countered, her voice ringing clear across the vast hall, "—if they can."
The Senate gasped, a few nervous, hollow laughs broke the tension. The Witch who had risen from her grave now stood before gods and monsters, her defiance a tiny, stubborn spark against eternity.
From the lower galleries, she caught the familiar, fragile sight of Sera, seated beside her grandmother Lady Evelyn Duskbane, staring at her in silent, tremulous awe. Evelyne's stern hand pressed lightly on the young Sera's wrist, commanding silence, but her grandmother's own eyes glistened with something between profound fear and the deepest forbidden pride.
High above them all, the Decemvirate of Shadows and Flame - ten beings bound by power and ancient law - finally sat up in their thrones. They were the arbiters of dominion. The balance of gods and beasts.
Nymera raised one trembling hand, and absolute silence obeyed her.
"The Witch's words are not idle ambition," she intoned, her blind eyes glowing silver beneath the veil. "I feel the Golden Mark upon her. Her claim requires more than mere assent."
A murmurs of fear, awe, and disbelief rippled through the senators.