Kaelith straightened, his eyes still glowing faintly. "We need to regroup and re-strategize."
He turned and headed toward the tall doors leading out of his most private quarters into the general hall of his palace. Elyra and Theron followed close behind him.
The grand hall was alive with groans, laughter and yelps of pain. Rebels; fairies with torn wings, mystical beasts nursing deep gashes, and a handful of lesser gods, rested on crystal benches or leaned wearily against the pillars. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and faint herbal magic. Lirael, Kaelith's longtime housekeeper and caretaker, moved gracefully among them. She served warm meals and glowing drinks while murmuring soft healing spells to ease pain and close minor injuries. Her movements were efficient and gentle, as always, her face calm and reassuring.
As soon as Kaelith stepped into the hall, Lirael turned toward him. A warm smile lit her face. "My lord," she called softly, gesturing for Elyra, Kaelith, and Theron to come closer. "Come, rest a moment. You all fought bravely."
The trio walked over. Elyra offered Lirael a polite nod of thanks. Theron, however, stayed a half-step behind, his grey eyes watchful and cautious as always when Lirael was near. The remaining two never fully understood why Theron had always been so wary of her. It had caused tension between Theron and Kaelith more than once. For almost a century, Theron had refused to set foot inside Crimsonspire because of it.
After a while, they began strategizing in a quieter corner of the hall, away from the main noise of everyone. Kaelith took the lead, his voice steady and commanding, his shoulders tensed from the thought of what was to come.
"So Theron already made arrangements for us to meet The Table at the Obsidian Throne of Aethryss. But we all know they will never come alone. They'll bring the Blight Army. In case they try to entrap us, not everyone will go in with us."
He paused, scanning the faces around him to make sure they were paying attention, then continued.
"Elyra and I will go into the front wall of the Obsidian Throne with some of the alitan puppets, the fairies, Sylvara, and Lirath. Theron stays out with the rest of the fairies, beasts, Zorath, and Draven."
Turning to Theron, he added, "You know the whistle of my shards. Once you hear it, it means we're going back to battle and The Table has refused our request. Charge in."
Theron winced but nodded in understanding, his expression tight.
Kaelith continued, "The bargain sent to The Table to sign includes making me a part of The Table, and giving some of you lesser gods free reign and part of the realm to reach your full potential."
At that, the hall erupted. The rebels hooted, stamped their feet in approval, and whistled loudly. The lesser gods, Zorath, Lirath, Draven, and Sylvara, smiled as if redemption had finally come for them after centuries of chains. Hope flickered in their eyes like fresh aurora light.
Kaelith looked around at their hopeful faces and silently prayed they would come out victorious. Va'kethar n'aktale hari, he thought. 'Let us not fall today.'
A few hours later, at midnight, new word arrived from The Table: they were willing to talk.
As the group prepared to move out, the air in Crimsonspire grew thick with anticipation. Theron pulled Elyra aside for a moment, his voice low and strained. "I feel… sort of funny. Since I had that meal."
Elyra dismissed it with a gentle wave of her hand, though concern flickered briefly in her green eyes. "It's because you didn't like who made the meal. And your dislike for war. You always get like this before battles."
Theron paused, considering her words, then nodded slowly. He supposed she was right.
As they proceeded to the Obsidian Throne, the group split carefully under the scattered light from the tear of the lining of the realm. Elyra, Kaelith, Sylvara, and Lirath walked straight toward the destination, their steps were alert and careful, the weight of the coming negotiation heavy on them. Theron led the rest of the rebels, his voice low but firm as he instructed them to spread out and surround the area. The fairies, beasts, Zorath, and Draven moved silently into position, vanishing into the shadows and watching from around the massive black structure that loomed like a dark crown against the torn sky.
After a while, Theron found a moment to rest. He leaned his head against a nearby plain of smooth obsidian, breathing heavily. Only one male fairy remained close by, watching over him with closely but he dismissed it. Inside, Theron's body churned and burned. A deep, unnatural sickness spread through his veins, as if his entire skin was peeling away from his bones. Weakness dragged at his limbs like chains. He knew something was terribly wrong.
With trembling fingers, he called upon one of his messenger birds. The creature appeared almost instantly at his side, wings shimmering with faint fate-threads. Theron whispered the message, his voice barely audible: "To Draven… lead the charge, I feel sick." He knew Draven would recognize the whistle of Kaelith's shards if battle truly began because he had also fought by Kaelith as the centuries went by.
Just as the bird took flight, a heavy cloth was thrown over Theron's head, blocking his vision and suffocating him. Strong hands gripped him from behind. He struggled, scratching and twisting desperately, but his body was too weak to fight back effectively. The world spun. His lungs burned for air.
'Damn it,' he thought, panic rising through the haze. 'I knew something was wrong with the food. Fucking traitor.'
The last thing he remembered before darkness swallowed him was the distant, mocking echo of the Obsidian Throne's black gates opening in the distance and a taunting chuckle and whispers about how good of a tool he'd become.