Children of the Dawn

The King's council chamber was a place built for lies. Polished marble floors reflected the painted constellations on the domed ceiling, creating an illusion of celestial order in a room designed for terrestrial power plays. The air, usually thick with the scent of aged parchment and cloying incense, now crackled with a tense, suffocating energy that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with fear.

The Iron Wolves stood in the center of it all, an island of grim, battle-worn reality in a sea of silken robes and pristine armor. Their dust-stained travel gear was a stark rebuke to the court's splendor. Every eye in the chamber seemed to bore into them, the weight of dozens of gazes a physical presence. The court saw a barbarian with a haunted look, a twitching rogue with sparking gloves, a wild elf, a weary cleric, and a stalwart but aging knight. They were outsiders, provincials, and the suspicion was a palpable force in the room.

At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat King Alaric of Astoria. At his side stood the High Priest of the Light and, like a mountain of cold iron, the grim-faced General Cedric, supreme commander of Astoria's armies.

Darius Ironheart, his face a granite mask of exhaustion, stepped forward. He had been briefed by Guildmaster Reynold; Captain Merek had already delivered his stark report. There was no need for preamble.

"Your Majesty," Darius began, his voice a low rumble that carried across the silent hall. "You have the facts. I am here to give you the context." He gestured to Lyra.

She presented the necromancer's scorched journal. "This book, sire, speaks of a 'Herald of the Abyss' and a 'Lord of Whispers.' It calls the slaughter at Graystone a 'harvest' of souls."

King Alaric's sharp, intelligent eyes narrowed. He had read Merek's summary, but hearing the word 'harvest' spoken aloud gave the threat a chilling immediacy.

One of the royal advisors, a gray-haired lord, cleared his throat. "Sire, while troubling, this could be misdirection. An agent of the Velkor Imperium, sowing chaos."

The theory was logical, predictable, and utterly wrong. But before Darius could counter, the King raised a hand. His gaze drifted past the Iron Wolves, to a young man standing near the far wall, clad in the light armor of a Royal Scout.

"Scout Joran Martel. Step forward."

A flicker of surprise crossed Erik's face. It was the soldier from Graystone, the one with the twin-gryphon crest. Joran stepped forward and bowed crisply, his face pale but his eyes resolute.

"You were my eyes in Graystone, scout," the King said. "Your report spoke of erratic undead behavior. It lacked… conviction. Having heard the testimony of these adventurers, do you have anything to add?"

Joran's gaze met Erik's for a brief moment, a silent acknowledgment of their shared fight. "Your Majesty," he began, his voice clear and steady. "I witnessed the initial siege. The undead moved with an unnatural purpose. It was not a mindless swarm of undeads. When the Iron Wolves arrived and engaged, I believed the situation was under control." He paused, his voice hardening with a note of regret. "Believing a capable adventuring party now had the situation in hand, I followed my standing orders to report on the unusual undead aggression. I was unaware of the true source, of any necromancer. But what I saw… it was not a random event. It was an invasion."

The King then turned his gaze. "Captain Merek."

The grizzled captain emerged from the shadows. "Your Majesty. I have already reported on the Uruk-hai. But I will state it for the council. The creatures we fought were not acting of their own will. They were puppets." He looked at the Iron Wolves. "These adventurers carry the truth. I would stake my life, and the lives of my men, on it."

The council chamber fell into a stunned hush. A Royal Scout and a decorated Captain had now corroborated the tale. The threat was no longer a distant rumor; it was a confirmed infiltration.

The King's jaw tightened. His gaze drifted toward the high, arched windows, toward the distant, cloud-wreathed peak of the Tower of Eternum. For weeks, his mages had reported a growing dissonance from the spire, a magical disturbance only he seemed to truly feel.

"A harvest," Alaric repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "Collecting souls as fuel." His eyes, burning with a sudden, cold fury, swept the room. "This 'Herald' slaughters my people, turns my soldiers into puppets, and dares to do this in my kingdom."

As he spoke, the very air in the chamber grew heavy. A palpable pressure radiated from the throne, an immense, crushing wave of raw power that had nothing to do with royal anger and everything to do with a force of nature being provoked. Erik's Battle Sense screamed a silent, frantic alarm; the King was not a man, he was a weapon, a walking forge of unimaginable energy. Beside him, Azaël's hand instinctively tightened on her bow, her elven senses reeling. Erythrael, strapped to Erik's back, went utterly, unnervingly still, its ancient hunger silenced by a power it recognized as infinitely superior.

"I should go to the Tower myself," Alaric snarled, the thought torn from him by his rage. "If it is a nexus of this power, another potential harvest site, I will face this threat directly."

"Sire, you cannot!" the High Priest exclaimed, stepping forward. "Your duty is here, to lead the realm! You are the shield of Astoria, not its sword!"

Alaric's power receded as quickly as it had flared, banked by the cold iron of his royal duty. He sank back into his throne, his face a mask of bitter conflict. The protector's impulse warred with the sovereign's duty.

It was Guildmaster Reynold who provided the path forward. "Your Majesty," he said. "You are right. We cannot allow this threat to fester. But you need not go yourself. The Tower Challenge was scheduled to commence in two months. I propose we move it forward. To the end of this month."

Alaric's head snapped toward him, his eyes flaring with a new, sharp anger. "And send the best warriors of this generation into a meat grinder? Guildmaster, you heard the reports. The Tower is unstable. The very magic of this world feels… frayed. Now you suggest we throw our champions into it prematurely, to face a threat we do not understand? That is not a strategy; it is a slaughter."

"It is a desperate gamble, sire," Reynold conceded, his voice firm. "But the Tower has always been a place of revelation. It tests, yes, but it also rewards. It reveals truths. We are fighting a war of shadows, and we are blind. The Tower may be the only place to find the light we need to fight back."

King Alaric's conflict eased, his anger giving way to a cold, grim resignation. He stared at the distant spire, the weight of his crown pressing down on him. Reynold was right. It was a terrible, bloody calculus, but it was their only path. He stood, his decision made. "A sound, if brutal, strategy. Guildmaster, you will send word to every kingdom. Announce a ceasefire. Tell them to send their best. But you will make it clear: this is not a tournament for glory. It is a crusade for survival. The Tower is more perilous than ever, its nature unpredictable. Warn them that they are walking into the heart of a storm, and only the strongest will return."

His gaze finally settled on the Iron Wolves, lingering on Erik with a heavy, unreadable intensity. "Iron Wolves… it seems your fate has led you from a frontier outpost to the heart of this crisis. I doubt destiny brought you all this way just to deliver a message and return home." He looked toward the Tower, a hint of ancient knowledge in his eyes. "That spire has a will of its own. It calls to those it deems worthy, or those it needs. If it has called to you, it is not for nothing. The Tower knows. Prepare yourselves."

As the council was dismissed, Erik stood frozen, the King's final words echoing not as a hope, but as a judgment. The Tower knows. The phrase twisted in his gut, a chilling evolution of the dread he'd first felt on the road to Oakridge. Back then, it was a terrifying suspicion that his journey was pre-written. Now, hearing it from the lips of a king who radiated primordial power, it felt like a verdict. The cage was real. He looked at his friends, at Lyra's newfound, volatile Light, at Finn's chaotic, stolen storm, and saw not miracles, but consequences. He was an Anomaly, and the world was tearing itself apart trying to accommodate him. The fear for his team was no longer a simple conflict; it was a cold, hard certainty. Leading them into the Tower was the greatest danger he could expose them to. And yet, hiding was no longer an option. The Tower held the only chance for answers. The freedom he had once craved had become the ultimate irony: the only path forward was the one that seemed to have been laid out for him since the beginning. He was walking into the loom, not as a victim of fate, but as a man determined to find the weaver.