"You seem awfully quiet," Kaelen commented as they were walking down the street. "Sure you're okay?"

Elara flinched and didn't look at him when she responded.

"I'm fine, yeah."

Kaelen studied her skeptically.

"You know, you can tell me if something's bothering you. I mean … we've just been through a lot."

He tried a smile, but it didn't catch.

"It's nothing," Elara murmured after hesitating for only a split second, her eyes tracking her feet.

Kaelen decided not to press the issue — for now. There were other things that required his undivided attention, like the lion den they were about to walk in.

#

The royal residence of Cylion was even more ostentatious than Malvorn's palace, if one could believe it. Even the surrounding villas, including the Dor homestead, failed to match its impressive height and breathtaking splendor. It was the center of power in this part of the world, and the extensive palace with its countless wings and towers did its best to support that claim.

Kaelen paid little attention to the impressive sight. His mind was set on the uncomfortable discussion they were about to have. He didn't know the other council members, but he knew his father, and that alone was enough to be concerned. Surely, Vaelorian would try his best to make this interaction as difficult as possible. Unless he was worried they would embarrass him on his behalf, in which case he might actually support them. But the chances of that were slim, and the ridiculous thought of their father being on their side painted a cynical smile on Kaelen's face. Yeah, right, he thought, and tightened his robe against the morning chill.

When they arrived at the monumental entrance gate, a pair of heavily armored guards stopped them. They were wearing red and yellow tabards, with the crest of their city, the face of a wild boar with long tusks, on their iron chests. Their sharp-looking halberds made from Perm steel crossed with a grinding noise, and their partially covered faces looked grim.

"Halt," the left guard bellowed.

"State your business, citizens," the right guard concluded their well-practiced routine.

Kaelen cleared his throat and straightened his posture in an attempt to command respect.

"We are here for an audience with the king and his council."

The guard on the left snorted. "Oh yeah? Well, lucky you, 'cause I am the king."

Both of them laughed, making the plates of their heavy armor jangle.

In his tense state of mind, Kaelen was close to losing his cool, but Elara's gentle hand on his arm helped him relax.

"You lot Fateweavers?" one of them asked, gesturing at their filthy orange robes.

"Matter of fact, we are. And we have urgent business with the king."

"Piss off," the left guard moaned and spat on the floor. "King's busy. Too busy for you, anyway."

"The king is expecting us," Elara explained patiently. "We are Kaelen and Elara Dor. Our father is a council member.

The guards visibly stiffened, lowering their weapons.

"Bollocks," one of them said, but with diminishing resolve.

His companion was already one step further.

"Apologies, my Lady, my Lord." He bowed awkwardly. "We didn't know you were part of them Dors." Nodding at Kaelen, he added: "My Lord should've led with that."

He should have — but he didn't want to.

Once inside, they were seen to by a posh valet who led them through the magnificent halls and corridors of the royal palace until they eventually reached an antechamber in the undercroft of the palace. Wooden benches lined the walls, each of them covered by red cushions, and a smooth rug lay in front of a large iron door like a rolled-out tongue. The decorations here were modest, more practical, and Kaelen appreciated that.

After waiting a few minutes, the iron door swung open, and they were ushered inside. Beyond the doorstep lay a large room with a surprisingly low ceiling, clad in dark wooden panels and supported by rough stone pillars. In its midst stood a long table with untouched bowls of fruit on it, interspersed with slender silver candle stands. The table was surrounded by nine chairs with unnecessarily tall backrests, with the chair at the end of the table standing out among the rest. It resembled a more humble version of a throne, which Kaelen assumed could be found in full pageantry in the actual throne room. This, however, was the operative center of the kingdom, where all important decisions were made by the most influential people of Cylion. The immense power of the men and women before Kaelen emanated through the room in palpable waves, making his confidence waver before any words had even been spoken.

The only familiar face in the round, yet probably the least friendly, was their father's. He glared at them with visible contempt, slowly massaging his hands that were resting on the table in front of him. He wore black robes with a stiff collar and wide sleeves, covered entirely in gold embroidery. A neat bun confined his slick black hair like a knotted anchor, holding every strand in a disciplined grip.

Forcing himself to ignore his father for now, Kaelen studied the rest of the group. There was King Montis, of course, in his larger chair at the end of the table, wearing a silk garment in the colors of the city, red and yellow, and a pointy crown with rubies and citrines worked into the frame. His short brown hair was neatly combed, matching his plucked eyebrows and smooth skin.

Kaelen had heard a lot about the king — he was not the most approachable person, nor the most visionary. His reign was fair, but not kind, his politics adequate but with a lack of foresight, his fight against local crime appreciated, but inefficacious. People generally approved of him, since they were used to worse — and those who'd lived to see better rulers found comfort in the fact that Montis wasn't bothering them for the most part. Besides, many Cylionites assumed that a large percentage of decrees actually stemmed from the feathers of Montis' esteemed council members, driven by their own interests and inflated egos.

Despite all that, King Montis was the chief commander of the largest army in this part of the world, though he barely made use of it, unlike his father and predecessor on the throne. King Morcan had been a great leader to his people, but a relentless force to anyone who opposed him and his kingdom. By now, Kaelen had also learned that King Morcan had led the last attack on the Fateless, supported by the order of Fateweavers.

Montis's dark brown eyes examined Kaelen with a hint of boredom, and his open palm drew circles in the air. Next to him sat a grim-looking man in silver armor, his shaggy black hair like a crow's nest on his massive skull, his crooked nose covered in scars and blemishes. From underneath his bushy eyebrows, he was staring at Kaelen with the eyes of a warrior who'd cut down countless foes in his time. Across from him, and next to their father, sat his polar opposite in the form of an elegant woman with long blonde hair, dressed in a light blue gown that ran down her features like a gentle stream. Her eyes were the color of ice, expressing a remarkable amount of cunning and intelligence, and her skin was smooth as silk. Kaelen recognized her from some of his father's rants over a decade ago, when he would go on and on about a young council woman named Rhea, who would keep defying him in session — and, by the looks of it, with remarkable success, since she now wore the emblem of the Right Hand of the king on her chest: a golden tusk. Even Vaelorian's unfounded accusations of Rhea being a traitor to the realm seemed to have missed their mark, and Kaelen found great enjoyment in the fact that she now outranked his ambitious father.

The remaining seats were filled with representatives of different crafts and trades. There was a rather opulent merchant with a burgundy robe that seemed to burst at the seams, and a feather hat that rested atop his bald head. There was a mason with thick, callused hands and muscular arms that peeked out from underneath a gray shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A tall man with the unremarkable appearance of an accountant sat on the other side of Vaelorian, wearing a modest but professional suit and a matching beret. The two seats at the end of the table, closest to where Elara and Kaelen were standing, were occupied by an older woman in a simple brown robe and an ambitious-looking young man with long golden hair that was glued to his head as if a cow had licked it.

Nine pairs of eyes were resting on Kaelen and Elara, with varying interest and approval. Finally, King Montis broke the silence.

"Welcome, young Fateweavers, children of Vaelorian," he said in a formal tone.

Vaelorian flinched visibly, undoubtedly already regretting ever agreeing to this.

"What brings you before us today?"

They were standing a few feet away from the end of the table, which Kaelen assumed to be a respectful distance. Despite his upbringing, he did not know the proper etiquette in the presence of a king, so he just went for what he thought felt right. After exchanging glances with Elara, who looked equally timid, he mustered the resolve to respond.

"Thank you for receiving us, Your Majesty. My name is Kaelen, and this is my sister, Elara."

Montis nodded courteously.

"Your Majesty — we bring unpleasant news, I'm afraid." Kaelen gestured apologetically, but he could already see the reactions to his words.

King Montis' neat eyebrows narrowed in an expression of disapproval. The stern warrior next to him, presumably his military advisor and personal guard, sat up a little straighter. Rhea looked like her curiosity had been piqued, and the opulent merchant shifted in the confinement of his chair to get a better view of the newcomers.

"Speak plainly," Montis demanded with a tang of annoyance in his voice.

Kaelen gulped. "Yes, Your Majesty," he began, then hesitated.

There was no easy way to say what he had to, and there was no way around it either. Still, he knew it wouldn't go down well.

"We learned about an imminent attempt on your life."

A collective gasp filled the room, followed by the sound of moving chairs and weapons being unsheathed. The warrior next to Montis had gotten up first, and with remarkable agility. His long sword was drawn and held out in front of him with perfect form, his dark eyes frantically scanning the room for potential threats. The guards behind Kaelen and Elara followed suit, doing as their commander, though with less impeccable prowess. The mason had clenched his fists and pushed his chair away from the table, while the accountant seemed to have shrunk a couple of inches. Vaelorian's reaction was more subtle, but telling — he had lowered his head, as if it had suddenly gotten unbearably heavy, and his wrinkled forehead was resting on his slender fingers. The only one who didn't even flinch was Rhea, although the darting gaze of her ice-blue eyes seemed to puncture Kaelen's skull like an arrow.

In the tense quiet that followed, Vaelorian's words boomed like roaring thunder.

"Nonsense," he spat out, and the room seemed to relax a bit.

Montis straightened his posture and tried to project calm, even though his features spoke differently.

"That's a bold claim," he said with a brittle voice. "What do you base it on?"

More and more eyes were once again resting on Kaelen, but their mood had shifted from curiosity to hostility.

Kaelen hesitated. He tried to think of the best approach to untangle the convoluted events of the last week and explain them to Montis without being branded a traitor or liar.

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"We saw it in the fate of someone," he declared, after deciding to disclose information as gradually as possible.

Montis seemed to relax, but the man next to him made no move to leave his fighting stance.

"It's alright, Beon," the king told him, but the warrior didn't seem convinced.

"Sit down, would you? No harm will come to me in these halls."

Reluctantly, Beon did as he was told, and slowly, but surely, order was restored in the council chamber.

"Now, this fate you mentioned," King Montis said and gestured with his hands, "could that by any chance be related to the fate tome that was stolen from the Fateweaver's Great Library?"

Kaelen opened his mouth in surprise. How did Montis know about the theft?

The king saw his confusion and smiled wearily.

"My Boy," he said with a tired voice, "I know what is going on in my kingdom. I'd be a poor ruler otherwise."

Kaelen could've sworn he saw a subtle smirk tugging at Rhea's lips, but it was already gone after he blinked.

"You see," Montis continued, "Elder Thornec wrote to me after the theft. He disclosed some … worrying … theories."

By the looks of it, everyone in the room was well-informed. Kaelen acknowledged that this would make explaining all of this easier, but it did throw a wrench in his initial strategy.

"It is," Kaelen stammered, "Your Majesty. It is related to that tome. In fact, the fate in the tome spoke of someone who will try to murder you."

It said they would murder Montis, not just try. Yet, Kaelen thought it best to omit that detail he himself didn't want to believe in.

Rhea lifted her eyebrows.

"And how would you know what is written in that stolen tome?" she asked with a soft yet firm voice.

Vaelorian flashed a grim smile, seemingly enjoying the crossfire Kaelen found himself in.

Again, Kaelen hesitated. This discussion was shaping up to be every bit as uncomfortable as he imagined it to be.

"We were sent to retrieve the tome."

The merchant scoffed and leaned forward, pronouncing his meaty chin. "They sent two apprentices to retrieve something as valuable as a fate tome? What madness has gotten into them?"

He looked around for support, but only met the cold eyes of Rhea.

"Sounds like these … apprentices … managed to fulfill the task they were given," she noted calmly. "Something that can't always be said for the esteemed members of this council."

The merchant bit his lip and looked down onto his bulging chest.

"Who does the tome belong to?" the mason asked, his voice low and gravely.

Pearls of sweat started forming around Kaelen's temples.

"We don't know who they are, but we know what they are."

"Surely, you're not about to tell us they are Fateless, right?" Vaelorian asked with a cynical voice. "Because last I checked, Fateless are called that because they don't have fate tomes."

Kaelen struggled to find a clear-cut response.

"Well," he muttered, "they might not be a Fateless by definition, but they definitely are working with them."

A murmur filled the room, as the council members exchanged whispered words behind their palms. The collective mood seemed to decline even further.

King Montis studied Kaelen with a sour expression, making it clear he had heard enough.

"I assure you," Montis exclaimed over the noise, hushing the men and women around the table, "that I am well-protected. We appreciate your concern."

His voice was insincere, like a parent telling a child what they want to hear, only to shut them up.

"I assume that is all?" Montis asked with a wave of his hand, gesturing towards the door.

Kaelen glanced at the round until his eyes met the smirking face of his father — it stirred something deep within him.

"No," Kaelen hissed between gritted teeth.

A collective gasp filled the room, and Montis stared at him as if he'd been slapped in the face.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We can't underestimate the Fateless — not now. Not again," Kaelen growled.

"What do you know about the Fateless, boy?" Vaelorian snapped, pointing one of his long fingers at him. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

A few of the older council members nodded in agreement.

Kaelen bit his lip. He was about to walk down a slippery slope.

"I know more than you think," he said quietly. "I have seen them. I've heard what they are planning."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Vaelorian snarled. "Explain yourself, boy!"

Kaelen chose to not grant his father the satisfaction of addressing him directly. Instead, he focused on the king.

"During our quest to retrieve the stolen fate tome, my sister and I traveled to the hideout of the Fateless, the underground city of Morathen."

King Montis' eyes widened, his rosy cheeks losing some of their warm color. Beon next to him grunted belligerently, and Rhea leaned forward ever so slightly. Most of the other council members simply stared at Kaelen in utter disbelief, their faces petrified like painted statues.

"The Morathen?" Rhea probed, a hint of wonder in her voice.

Kaelen opened his mouth to respond, but Vaelorian cut him off.

"Morathen is nothing more than a bedtime story for foolish children," he rasped. "But even that story would've paled when faced with the likes of your foolishness."

The merchant cracked a dull smile, but quickly straightened his face when no one else was laughing.

A bitter taste filled Kaelen's mouth, one he wouldn't be able to wash down with water.

"It's real," he said firmly, clenching his fists. "We were there. And we have met their ruler."

An awkward silence filled the room. King Montis was the first to speak again.

"Their ruler?"

"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty." Kaelen said and inclined his head. "His name is Malvorn, and he is a true tyrant. His plan is to declare war on the surface world, to burn everything we cherish to the ground. But he can't do so while Cylion still stands strong, which is why he plans to assassinate you."

At least now, Kaelen thought, it couldn't get any worse. He had dropped the horrible truth, and from hereon out it was up to higher powers to decide what to do with it.

For a long time, no one said anything.

"Let me get this straight," Vaelorian sneered with a chilling voice. "You're saying that the two of you, both mere apprentices of fate, went into the heart of the Fateless lair, had a friendly chat with their malevolent ruler, where they explained all their evil plans to you, before proceeding to retrieve the stolen tome and journey back to Cylion completely unscathed?" He let his words be felt. "Somehow, I find that hard to believe."

Whispers of disbelief cut through the air. Next to him, Elara nervously shifted her weight.

"I say the boy's a liar," the merchant grunted, and pursed his rubbery lips.

"I am not," Kaelen protested, taking a step towards the table.

Beon's eagle eyes glared at him in a silent warning.

"How could the two of you possibly achieve all that and live to tell the tale?" the mason asked skeptically.

Deep wrinkles were carved into the parchment-like skin of his forehead, as if he was actually trying to picture their adventure in his head.

Kaelen sighed. "We had help," he admitted, knowing that his attempt at explaining would only lead to further questions.

"By whom?" Rhea asked with a voice as smooth as her golden hair.

"Someone who knows Morathen well," Kaelen evaded.

Rhea's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "You mean … a Fateless?"

When Kaelen's eyes met his father's, he immediately knew Vaelorian was onto him. He could see the gears in his head grinding, coming to the inevitable conclusion that a Fateless, Nyu, had stood in his own house. Confusion mixed with anger, turning into rage.

"Scandalous!" his father snapped. "To even consider the thought of allying with a Fateless …"

He gestured frantically, almost hitting one of the candle stands.

"Are you telling me," King Montis interjected, "that you willingly partnered with the enemy?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it willingly —"

"What then, boy?" Vaelorian barked. "What would you call it? Treason? Betrayal?"

"She threatened to kill us," Kaelen tried to explain, but his words lacked resolve.

This was an uphill battle in heavy rain, with a mudslide coming his way.

"So you are saying the two of you couldn't fight off one measly Fateless?"

Not knowing how to respond to that, Kaelen chose to remain silent. His energy was fading like the last embers of a dying fire. He glanced at Elara, but his sister looked just as worn out as him.

Vaelorian snorted and leaned back. "That's what I thought," he declared, his gaze wandering from one council member to the next. "A story so ridiculous even my delusional son is struggling to keep its untangling strands together."

Kaelen opened his mouth in confusion. Of all the people in this room, his father should've known what they said was true, having met Nyu himself. But apparently, he chose to defame them out of spite.

"You know it's true," Kaelen stammered. "You've seen —"

Vaelorian scoffed theatrically. "What I haven't seen," he sneered cynically, "is some actual proof. Say, the tome you claim to have retrieved. Surely, it's still in your possession?"

A smug smile spread his pale lips.

"I —" Kaelen began, but broke off.

The tome was hiding in one of his deep pockets, but under no circumstances did he want to reveal it to Montis's council. They could decide to take it away from him, potentially dooming all of them and many more in the process. He had to know the Fateless' next move, and for that he needed to keep the tome safe — even if it meant failing to convince Montis and his council.

"I can't show you the tome," he sighed.

Vaelorian grimaced triumphantly.

"That's what I thought," he said with relish.

"Now, now," Rhea chimed in with her soothing voice, "don't be so hard on our guests. Besides, are they not your children?"

The satisfaction vanished from their father's face like the flame of a blown-out match.

King Montis shifted in his chair, scratching his chin.

"The Fateweavers have been a close ally for generations," he finally declared.

"An ally that takes more than they offer," Vaelorian growled, frowning like he'd just bitten into an unripe orange. "They are an ally that calls on us whenever they need our military aid. But what have they done for us?"

Kaelen thought he'd seen all of his father's ugly sides by now, but this latest agitation against the Fateweavers was a new one.

"Have they not offered guidance and counsel throughout your reign, Your Majesty?" the gray-haired woman at the end of the table asked in a thin voice.

Vaelorian's piercing eyes turned on her, and she seemed to shrink with every second that passed.

"If that were the case, then what would be the point of this council?" he rasped.

Montis conciliatorily raised his hand. "It is true — their opinions have always been valued."

"And yet," Vaelorian continued unfazed, "they only ever offer half-truths. Never do they reveal the full picture."

The king of Cylion considered the remark for a moment, giving Kaelen time to force himself back into the discussion.

"That's how it's meant to be," he urged. "We are not to reveal the fate of those who ask about it. Giving guidance is the best we can do, and even that is bending the rules of our order."

"Sounds to me like your best is not good enough."

"Enough now," Montis declared. For the first time, he looked angry, and his smooth face was lined with wrinkles.

"Our relationship with the Fateweavers is a special one — it always has been."

His mellow eyes rested on Kaelen while he spoke.

"However, I agree with Vaelorian. We have to focus on our own problems for the time being."

"How is your assassination not one of your problems?," Kaelen blared out before he could stop himself. "How is it not your problem, when the Fateless emerge from their hideout and march onto Cylion?"

He knew immediately he was overstepping — but at the same time, he was getting desperate.

"Do you know no manners, boy?" Vaelorian snapped, but again, Montis signaled for quiet.

"We will deal with the Fateless should it come to that," he said firmly. "Cylion is more than capable of defending itself. As for my own safety …" he glanced at Beon, "I'm in very capable hands."

The grim looking man nodded stiffly, then glared at Kaelen and Elara.

Montis let out an exhausted sigh and leaned back in his chair.

"I think we are done here."

Before Kaelen could respond, two guards had closed in behind them, giving them to understand that their time was up. He took a last glance at his father's arrogant face, half expecting him to throw another defamation at them. Next to Vaelorian, Rhea still carried a clever smile on her lips, and her ice-blue eyes were resting on him with unbound curiosity.

The guards impatiently gestured with their weapons, and Kaelen finally turned to face the door.

On the way out, Elara whispered: "Well, it could've been worse."

Kaelen scoffed. "I fail to see how."

Elara let out a dry laugh. "At least we embarrassed our dear father in front of his work friends."

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