The chamber lay hidden beneath the western wing of the barracks, carved into stone long before most of Kylles had been born. No banners hung on its walls. No torches burned too brightly. It was not a place for ceremony.
It was a place for truth.
One by one, they arrived.
Bootsteps echoed down the narrow stairway—slow, heavy, deliberate. Each man who entered carried the weight of battles that had not been fought in years but had never truly left them.
A scarred captain ducked beneath the low archway, his shoulder brushing the stone. Behind him came a lean archer, then a broad-armed veteran whose limp spoke of an old war no one mentioned anymore.
They took their places without greeting.
Eyes met. Nods were exchanged.
Then the murmurs began.
"Why here?"
"Why now?"
"She called this."
A short laugh. "She?"
The sound of another step silenced them.
McTera entered last.
The torchlight caught the edge of her armor as she stepped into the chamber. It was lighter than theirs, built for speed rather than weight, but it bore its own marks—scratches, dents, places where steel had met steel and neither had given easily.
She did not hurry.
She did not hesitate.
Yet as she walked past them, the difference was clear.
She was the only one without gray in her hair.
The only one whose face had not yet been carved by time.
And the only one they watched not with respect—but with judgment.
A man near the wall folded his arms. "We've seen wars come and go," he said. "Some of us before you could even hold a blade."
Another added, "Some of us buried brothers before you were born."
A few nodded.
No one greeted her.
At the center of the chamber stood a round stone table. McTera moved toward it and rested her hands upon its surface. For a moment, she said nothing.
The room shifted.
Boots scraped. Someone exhaled sharply.
"Speak," the scarred captain said at last.
McTera lifted her gaze.
"I did not call you here for comfort," she said.
Her voice did not rise, yet it carried.
"I called you because something is wrong."
A faint scoff came from the shadows. "We know that. The king dreams, and suddenly the sky is falling."
A few low chuckles followed.
McTera did not react.
"I have seen it too," she said.
That stopped them.
The archer leaned forward slightly. "Seen what?"
"The fall of Kylles."
Silence pressed in.
Not disbelief—yet not acceptance.
"Dreams," the limping veteran muttered. "We are not children."
McTera's fingers tightened against the stone table.
"It was not just a dream."
Her eyes moved across their faces—one by one.
"I saw the palace gates broken. I saw fire where there should be light. I saw men turning on their own, not knowing who to trust."
A pause.
"And I saw why."
The chamber held still.
"Well?" the scarred captain said. "Say it."
McTera drew a breath.
"The danger is not only outside our walls," she said. "It is already inside them."
The reaction was immediate.
Voices rose.
"Careful—"
"You speak of treason—"
"You overstep—"
She raised her voice—not louder, but sharper.
"Listen."
The word cut through them.
For a moment, they did.
"There is deception in the palace," she continued. "The priest who is coming—he must not be trusted."
A harsh laugh broke out.
"Now you challenge the priest?"
"And what next?" another added. "Will you take the throne as well?"
More laughter.
McTera's jaw tightened.
"I am telling you what I have seen."
"And we are telling you," the scarred captain said, stepping forward, "that you see too much for someone who has seen too little."
A murmur of agreement followed.
"Young blood runs fast," the limping veteran said. "It mistakes fear for vision."
"And pride for wisdom," another added.
McTera held her ground.
"I am not asking you to believe me," she said. "I am asking you to prepare."
"For what?" the archer challenged. "A shadow? A feeling?"
"For betrayal," she replied.
The word landed—and lingered.
But then—
A man near the back spat on the ground.
"Enough of this."
All eyes turned.
"You called us here," he said, "as if you were one of us."
The air shifted.
"You are not," he continued.
A few nodded.
"You are a soldier, yes," he said. "We have seen you fight. No one denies that."
A pause.
"But you are still—"
He stopped, but the meaning hung in the air.
Another man finished it for him.
"The only woman in a room built by war."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
McTera did not look away.
"And the youngest," the scarred captain added quietly. "Do not forget that."
A few men looked down, almost uneasy—but none spoke against it.
Years of battle stood in that room.
Years McTera did not have.
She felt it—not in their words, but in the space they kept between her and themselves.
Still, she did not step back.
"If I am wrong," she said, "then we lose nothing by being ready."
"And if you are right?" the archer asked.
McTera's voice did not waver.
"Then we lose everything by doing nothing."
For a moment, no one answered.
Then the limping veteran shook his head.
"We will not turn against our own on the strength of your dream."
"And we will not dishonor our traditions," another added.
"The priest will come," the scarred captain said. "And we will listen—as we always have."
McTera's hands slowly curled into fists.
"And if that is the mistake?" she asked.
No one replied.
The decision had already been made.
One by one, they turned away.
Bootsteps echoed again—this time toward the exit.
"She is bold," someone muttered.
"Boldness is not leadership."
"Nor is it wisdom."
The chamber emptied.
Soon, only McTera remained.
The torches flickered softly, their light shifting against the stone walls.
For a long moment, she stood still.
Then her shoulders lowered—not in defeat, but in understanding.
They would not stand with her.
Not now.
Perhaps not ever.
She looked down at her hands—the same hands that had held a blade against enemies who did not hesitate to kill her.
Yet here, among her own people, they had no weight at all.
A faint sound escaped her—something between a breath and a laugh.
Then it was gone.
McTera straightened.
If they would not listen together, then she would stand alone.
She turned toward the stairway and began to climb.
Above her, the world of Kylles moved on—unaware, unready.
Behind her, the chamber fell silent once more.
But the words she had spoken did not vanish.
They lingered in the air, like the first distant rumble of a storm no one yet believed was coming.