Chronicles of Altera: Echos, Vol. 1

The marble halls of the Grand Chamber loomed vast and silent, their walls adorned with ancient banners of conquest. The Council’s emblem—a golden sun encircled by an iron wreath—hung above the throne-like seats of the Twelve, men and women who governed Agrios with silk-gloved hands and bloodstained decrees. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and perfumed oil, a deliberate choice meant to cover the decay of old politics and even older betrayals. Twelve figures sat in a perfect circle, their robes immaculate, their expressions as sharp as the daggers they buried in others’ backs. At the head of the assembly, Chancellor Vaelin settled back in his chair, fingertips pressed together. His hair, once a crown of gold, had long since turned the color of frost, yet his gaze held the fire of a man whose power had never waned.

“Eryndoriel Arathion has become a problem.”

The words drifted through the chamber, calm, absolute. A murmur rippled through the council.

“A problem?” Lord Halric, Minister of Defense, scoffed. His broad hands, calloused from years as a former commander, flexed atop the polished table.

“She was a problem the moment she abandoned her station. We should have dealt with her years ago.”

“And yet she lives.” Vaelin’s voice remained smooth.

“She does more than live,” cut in Lady Sorella, Minister of Information, her thin lips curling as she leaned forward.

“She thrives. The Wyvern Guard has grown bold. They intercept supply lines, dismantle our mercenary contracts, and disrupt trade in the southern provinces. Entire villages refuse to pay tribute, believing she and her so-called warriors are their protectors.”

Vaelin tilted his head slightly. A look of pure distaste covered his pompous face.

“And what do the people say of us?”

Sorella exhaled through her nose. Is Vaelin trying to make this a jest? Does he truly believe that our reputations are a laughing matter?

“That we are the tyrants she paints us to be.”

A scoff rippled through the chamber.

“We are the council of Agrios,” Lord Garos, Minister of Wealth, growled, adjusting his heavy rings. He was a fat bearded individual clearly eating all the riches he could get for himself and others.

“We do not concern ourselves with the bleating of peasants.”

“Perhaps you should,” murmured Lady Veyne, Minister of Arcane Affairs, her voice a quiet knife among roaring hounds. She was the youngest at the table, but her words carried weight.

“History does not favor those who mistake silence for obedience. The Dullahan Kingdom learned that the hard way.”

At the mention of the Dullahans, the chamber grew tense. Everyone remembered. The annihilation of an entire people, justified by manufactured lies and buried beneath official doctrine. Eryn had been there. She had fought for them—believing in the council’s justice. And when she learned the truth, she had turned her back on them. Vaelin’s lips curved ever so slightly.

“Eryn believes herself to be righteous.”

“Worse.” Halric leaned forward, his white robes greatly contrasted by his charred skin that cracked with every movement. his dark eyes glinting in what little you could see of his face.

“She believes herself correct.”

Vaelin tapped a finger against the table, considering the delusion of Eryn being correct in anything they have done.

“It is not righteousness that makes her dangerous. It is not even the sword at her hip or the army she commands.” He paused.

“It is the fact that she wins.”

Silence burst through the room.

“Every battle,” he continued,

“every mission, every intervention—the Wyvern Guard has not merely defied us, they have humiliated us. They operate outside our law, and yet they hold the favor of the people. That, my dear council, is insurrection.”

The murmurs turned to heated agreement akin to children finally decided what to do with their sandbox prisoner.

“Then we burn them out,” Garos grunted.

“That was the plan last time,” Veyne murmured.

“And yet Rethamar Keep still stands.”

“Not for long,” Halric assured her, his expression darkening.

“This time, we send the full might of the Agrian Army. No mercy. No quarter.”

A slow smile returned to Vaelin’s lips.

“Indeed. And we will send something else as well.”

He turned his gaze to the lone figure standing in the center of the chamber.

Kael Orath had remained silent through the entire exchange. Unlike the rest of them, he wore armor, not robes. It was a polished black warplate, the sigil of the Agrian military gleaming upon his chest. His twin great axes rested at his back, their handles wrapped in dark leather, worn from countless battles. His face, partially shadowed by the glow of enchanted braziers, was scarred but unreadable. His hair, once cropped to a soldier’s cut, had grown longer, tied into a thick braid down his back. His one good eye remained locked on the map of Altera, where Rethamar Keep was marked in ink.

His mentor’s last stronghold.

“You were her student, she treated you like her own family. Raised you from the dirt of the Undercity, molded you into a fine lieutenant while shielding you from the- what does she call it? Shit Show in Robes.” Vaelin said finally.

Kael’s fingers flexed at his side.

“Ah, there is anger in your breast when I drag her name through the mud as she does our image. There must still be respect for your predecessor turned tratior! Will you hesitate?”

For a moment, the chamber seemed too quiet.

A younger Kael, mud-splattered and breathless, staring up at the woman who had beaten him into the dirt.

“Again. Promise you Kae, you don’t want to be eating mud in the field, it usually means I have to ship you back in a box, and I don’t want to do that.”

The memory was a whisper in the dark.

“No.”

The word came flat, unwavering. Vaelin’s smile widened.

“Good.”

The order was given: The Wyvern Guard would burn, and Kael Orath would strike the match. The chamber emptied slowly. Ministers murmured amongst themselves, their words hushed and conspiratorial. Kael turned to leave, his boots echoing against polished marble.

“Commander Orath.”

The voice stopped him.

Lady Sorella approached, her emerald-green robes pooling around her feet as she moved. She was shorter than him, but her presence was a weight of its own. Kael turned, saying nothing. She studied him for a moment, her sharp, calculating gaze searching his face.

“Tell me, Commander,” she said at last,

“How does it feel to be sent against the very woman who made you?”

Kael’s jaw tightened.

“Necessary.”

Sorella’s smile was thin, knowing the unbelievable amount of thoughts that were rushing through his head. After all she could see them She was a mind mage or a telepath as some people would call it.

“I wonder if you truly believe that.”

Kael said nothing. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. ”

She will not hold back, you know. Do you think you are ready for that?”

Kael met her gaze, his expression stone.

“I trained under her.” His voice was even, but the weight behind it lingered.

" I was forged anew in the fires of the Tartarus Keep. Sharpened in the hellscape of the Outer. She should be the one asking if she’s ready for me.”

Sorella chuckled softly, but there was no warmth in it.

“Perhaps. But one final piece of advice, Commander.”

She leaned in, her breath barely brushing his ear.

“Do not fail.”

Then she turned, her robes whispering against the marble. Kael stood there a moment longer, staring at the door she had disappeared through. His hand drifted to the handle of one of his great axes.

Then he left.

The march to Rethamar Keep had begun.