𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔟𝔦𝔯𝔡 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤

𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

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“King Brondyr is dead! His incantation can save us no more,”  Lord Allerick thumped his fist on the round  table. The tremor was felt by all of the others. All the Elders of the Seven Arts were seated in the council room, called upon by him, to discuss war in the dead of the night.

“It’s true,” Lady Lysandra spoke in a grave but gracious voice. She sat beside him, glancing everyone over her glass of wine, always so elegant, always so dignified. “We can not depend on the King’s magic no longer, it grows weak.”

“But it has yet held strong. We cannot doubt his strength.” It was Lord Xandyr who rose from his seat, working his magic. His fingers moved along an imaginary wall, and soon a three dimensional image was formed before them on the table,  showing the gates, the portals to their realm. They were lessening day by day, and so was their power to hold. But he did not like to agree with Lord Allerick, and what losing their connection to the land would entail. “We are safe.” He said, despite it all.

Lord Maverick, added his own illusions which showed the portals that had been collapsing for the last few months. “Safe? This is what you call safe, Xandyr? Our people are losing their magic-”

“They grow restless, yes,” Lord Allerick nodded to the other lord, who in this god-forsaken place, had the mind to agree with him. “It’s our land, more important to us than those filthy colonizers! It’s about time we take it back!”

“And what say you, Myreia?” Lord Maverick spoke. He had always held a fancy to the Lady of Literature.

“Well,” she drawled. “If war it is, then it will be recorded in the most glorious way.”

“And it’ll make for good old ballads, too!” The merriness of Lord Octavian was not helpful. Momentarily, there was calm among them. Everyone seemed to decide which side they were on, and their decision would be vital. A mild breeze swept through the room through the long, arched windows, courtesy of Lord Allerick. He was the lord of Architects, one of the Seven Elders of Arts.

“You do know that a war could cost us more than we bargain for, right?” asked Lady Camille of Sculptors. She looked right at Lord Allerick, who was the reason why this council meeting was happening in the first place. “War has always cost us more than our oppressors…”

“But we cannot give up without a battle, that’s no glory at all!” The walls around them rocked in their foundations, the anger of Lord Allerick pulsating in the room. He was always for the glory, for the strength, for the power. “We have our powers, our magic by our side. They don't have that.”

“But our people, Allerick, our people. We have a responsibility towards them. We cannot wage wars, we cannot send them to their slaughters, even if we have our magic.” Lady Myreia cried, finally voicing her opinion. Her voice was smooth, like ink blossoming on papers. Lord Maverick felt betrayed, he had the right to. 

“After all, our skills and our magic has never been the one to destroy,” said Lord Xandyr. 

“Yes, thank you, Xandyr.” Lady Camille leaned forward, resting her slender arms on the table. “Even if we win the war, it would be-”

“A Pyrrhic victory, one where we lose everything and have nothing left to gain.” Lady Myreia nodded her silent thanks to her friend, who understood just how much this could cost them. Lord Octavion was being strangely quiet, contradictory to his exuberant personality.

They cannot lose their people in a meaningless war, again. It had taken centuries after the Elysian War to build the world they have now, all peaceful and enchanting. They cannot tear down all that diligent work to engage in another one.

Lady Lysandra finally settled her glass on the table and spoke, loud and clear, acquainted to speak and be heard. “And neither will we watch them destroy our land. Enough of magic has been stolen from us when King Brondyr banished us to this hidden world. And our lands, my dear Myreia, as you know, are being weakened. They are destroying our holy lands, polluting our divine rivers, wasting our sacred woods, poisoning our blessed earth. Unbeknownst to them, they are weakening our magic."

“I say we prepare our guards and our people. Take immediate action. Ambush those colonizers and drive them away. We take control of our Elysia,” Lord Maverick added, expecting everyone to agree after such a powerful speech. 

“We are not strong enough. King Brondyr was able to create Ethyrea, but not without consequences. May I remind you, my dear Lysandra, that it was him that had sacrificed his soul to create a safe haven for us?” Lady Camille sighed. She did not want war either.

“May he rest in peace. But where he be now, he doesn't need magic-”

“Have you forgotten, Allerick, that our magic was bestowed upon us? We have earned our magic through our finesse. It was a gift for our skills, not a crutch for our arts.” Lady Myreia interrupted, knowing how some of them depend more on their magic than on their talents.

“It is peacetime now,” said Lord Octavion, at long last.

“But not for long,” Lord Maverick added. “We are fighting for a cause.”

“We,” said Lady Camille who stood up and Lord Xandyr and Lady Myreia soon followed, “are not fighting at all.”

Lords Allerick and Maverick clenched their jaws, and flared their nostrils. How can these be peaceful times when their world, their Ethyrea would be blown into oblivion more sooner than later? Cowards.

“You know where we stand,” Lady Lysandra had better control over her emotions, showing no more than a sneer. 

The decision now solely relied on Lord Octavion. His eyes flickered, and then, “There’ll be no ballads and legends, if there are no people at all.” That was it. The matter of war should now be entirely dropped.

Lord Xandyr gazed toward the Guard Tower, the building a beacon of shimmering lights in the eastern horizon, and said quietly. “Our land has been infiltrated. There’s a spy amongst our numbers.”

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