Footsteps fell quickly on the tiled floor and echoed across the halls. Winds raged outside, pushing violently against the building's structure. Gold and marble glimmered around the newcomer as he ran. He stumbled to the doors and pressed the Savant ring against the small circle of soft clay. Three runes burst into white light, coupling upon themselves. The door slightly rippled before opening slowly. The man staggered inside the bright room and it's true elegance. Every pillar carved with delicate runes to support the roof of Sunrise Mithril, the strongest and most expensive metal on Scythar. A huge round table sat in the middle of the room, five thrones circled around it. The seats of the Ylcarii rule.
The council silenced and stared at Falloren as he leaned over, panting and dripping water on the patterned floor.
"They are here, my lords and ladies," he said, his voice stern with the grave weight of his voice.
High Councillor Sceravil frowned, her wrinkles of time clear on her once-young face. "Of whom do you speak of, Falloren?"
Falloren looked up, his stark white hair hanging in a wet mop on his head. He looked each councilor in the eyes. High Councillor Sceravil,
YOU ARE READING
Glyphs of Scythar
FantasyIn the continent of Scytheiri, peace was everything. Life flowered and the races of all kinds worked together, making trades and building homes. The scholars reigned while leaders shook hands and signed treaties. Merchants traded and seas were calm...
