The atmosphere was charged with energy, even though no one had spoken yet. Everyone was in their place—even the Sovereign—everyone except Julien. He was pacing back and forth rapidly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Finally, he stopped and pressed a palm to his face. He slammed his other hand down on the table, causing the rest of the Council to bristle, their eyes widening in fury. "Fools!" Julien shouted, his voice booming. "They are all fools! How could they let two of the Elite escape so easily?"
Julien was tall and lean, his skin bronzed by the sun and contrasted by the spill of silky brown hair. He was dressed entirely in black. Over a fitted vest and a waistcoat intricately adorned with silver chains and brass gears, he wore a heavy, fringed greatcoat.
Draped over his shoulders like a cape, the coat lent him a broad, imposing silhouette. He finished the look with tall, buckled leather boots—pieces that appeared as sturdy and practical as they were stylish.
This session of the Council at the Royal Citadel was urgent, despite it being the Winter Solstice. Two of the Elite had escaped from the laboratory, and so far, the Council still did not understand the cause of the transformation brought on by the plague.
"Sit down, Julien. We need to focus," Micav said, gritting his teeth—though no one noticed this but Julien.
The palace shimmered from end to end with gold, purples, and blues and was filled with priceless ornaments. The chairs and the table were crafted from mahogany wood, upholstered in the finest purple fabric brought from Babylon. The table was laden with food—every delicacy imaginable—while servants distributed alcohol to anyone whose glass ran low.
Julien sat, contemplating the place he was in, a look of contempt in his eyes. He was the only member of the Council who hailed from the Under-city.
He marveled at how everything here existed in such abundance, while in the Under-city, people were dying of hunger and illness. How could he be so despicable—chasing his ambition and leaving his people behind? Did he truly deserve this position?
No one had asked him how those two Elite had escaped yet. He looked around. Surely, one of them was bound to ask. He knew everything had a cost, and he was never ready to pay for his sins.
Micav stood with commanding calm; his movements were calculated and authoritative, carrying a weight that demanded silence from the room.
He leaned forward, pressing both hands firmly onto the mahogany table. "We have to find them before they reach the Republic in the Under-city—Aris—and begin plotting a larger insurrection."
"We must be quiet and precise about this," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous low, "excising any element that might incite chaos before it's too late."
Micav was a middle-aged man, distinguished by a hint of silver at his temples and within his neatly trimmed beard. His physique was remarkably chiseled for his age—a testament to a life of disciplined violence.
He was always armed to the brim, carrying guns, blades, hidden throwing knives, and tactical explosives; what made him seem somewhat unhinged was his refusal to leave his weapons outside even in the presence of the Sovereign. He was never seen without his custom-fitted general's cuirass, as if perpetually braced for a coup or an ambush.
"But we need them," chimed Bargos. "We must understand how the Elite obtained their powers so we can augment our forces with these capabilities. We cannot face the looming evil while remaining ignorant of its true strength." He continued, "Would it not be better if that power belonged to us?"
"And how can we claim power or priority while we are under potential threat from within? Such a move would only weaken our forces, allowing Babylon to topple us with ease," Micav countered. "Is the sacrifice of only two from the people of Aris not better than the destruction of us all?"
Micav was attempting to justify his means by appealing to a greater, more righteous goal—a tactic Julien saw right through. The more Micav spoke of sacrifice, the more Julien's temper began to flare.
Nirma and Morrigan started to argue bitterly, their voices overlapping in a sharp discord.
"Babylon has been our ally for over a hundred years. Why would they suddenly decide to attack us?" Morrigan asked.
Her question raised a storm of unspoken doubts—questions that no one else had dared to voice. Julien stood, the fury building within him reaching a breaking point, drawing the eyes of every Council member. He was just about to object, to tear into Micav's logic, until the Sovereign stood and shouted, "Silence!"
She was lean and short compared to most of the Council members, yet she possessed a presence no one could deny. Her silver-white hair moved with every motion she made, shimmering like moonlight. Her eyes were a piercing emerald green, holding a depth that was deeply unsettling. Her pale skin was dusted with freckles, a stark contrast to her ethereal glow.
All of this combined to make her appear almost angelic—and that was exactly why her people adored her. They saw her beauty as a divine sign that validated her righteousness.
That was the turning point. They had never seen the Sovereign truly angry before. In that moment, they knew they had pushed too far.
All except Micav. He stood with unwavering confidence, fully aware of the impact he had made on the Council—and, more importantly, on Aurora. His arrogance was palpable, cloaked in a suffocating layer of pride.
The others failed to recognize the Sovereign's eerie calm. She hadn't spoken since the beginning of the meeting, gathering opinions and weighing the situation, though the underlying tension in her posture made it clear she was deeply unsettled.
The main door suddenly burst open with such force that the heavy panels reeled back and forth on their hinges. The Arch Commander of the Enforcers rushed in, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"We have a problem," he panted, his voice cutting through the heavy silence left by the Sovereign.