The throne room of Aeloria had never been more crowded—nor more silent. The weight of war, of politics, of destiny itself, seemed to press down on every noble, mage, and paladin gathered under the obsidian arch of the royal dome.
Crimson banners adorned with the golden sigil of a silver hand fluttered against high stone walls. The torches burned brighter today—almost defiantly. As if even the flame sensed what was about to unfold.
Upon the blackened dais, King Mathew sat with the poise of a man who believed himself forged by fate. The crown above his brow gleamed like tempered gold, and the steel plating on his arms bore not a single scratch—a silent testament to his untouched authority. His eyes, dark and calculating, swept across the chamber. When he spoke, his voice was velvet and iron.
"The time for waiting is over."
A murmur of surprise stirred through the hall.
"The Forbidden Forest—long sealed by custom and cowardice—grows restless. The creatures within it creep closer to our borders, and the magic that slumbers in its roots has begun to seep into the land."
He stood from his throne, and every eye followed him.
"If we do not act, the forest will act for us. It is not simply a mass of trees—it is a vault of forgotten power. And Aeloria will not bow to forgotten power. It will claim it."
The nobles nodded. The mages whispered to one another with brightened eyes. But one voice rose above the rest, calm and resolute.
Duma, clad in his white and gold regalia, stepped forward from among the paladins. He stood tall, with broad shoulders and a presence like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"With all respect, Your Majesty," he said, "this is not a campaign of strategy. This is one of pride."
Gasps followed, but Duma didn't waver. He met the king's gaze as an equal.
"The forest holds magic that predates our kingdom. It is not wild—it is sacred. The spirits there are bound to old pacts, written in blood and starlight. You would risk it all—for what? A handful of untamed spells?"
Before Mathew could answer, another stepped forward.
Wilbaa the Wise.
The Archmage's long robe shimmered like mist under moonlight. His eyes were sharp beneath bushy white brows, and his smile held the confidence of a man who had read every prophecy worth fearing.
"And yet it is in untamed spells that the future is forged, Lord Duma," Wilbaa said, his voice like crackling embers. "We sit atop a dying world of limited magic, watching from our towers while power rots beneath our feet."
He turned to the king, hand over heart.
"The forest holds secrets. Elixirs. Ancient runes. With the right minds, we could craft defenses against any foe—foreign or domestic."
Duma's jaw tightened.
"You play with the divine like it is tinder for your fires. What you call power, I call doom."
"And what you call fear," Wilbaa retorted, "I call wisdom."
"That title suits you poorly, then," Duma said coldly. "Because this is no wise move. It's a gamble at the cost of nature itself."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
Then Mathew raised his hand.
He stepped forward, standing between them both. The firelight danced across his armor. His presence filled the hall like a rising tide.
"This is not a debate," he said, his voice cold now. "This is a decree."
A ripple of unease stirred.
"I will march first into the forest. Wilbaa shall be my second. And every spell cast, every branch broken—will be in the name of Aeloria's survival."
He paused. Then turned to the circle of paladins.
"Those who swore their blades to the crown—will you now sheath them in defiance?"
Duma bowed his head.
"My blade is yours, as duty demands. But not my heart."
Mathew stared at him for a moment. Then nodded.
Outside the chamber, as the meeting dissolved, quiet whispers bloomed. Not treason. But something close. A soft corrosion of faith.
The paladins of the Righteous Core, those sworn to protect the light of Aeloria, walked with heavier steps. Their eyes no longer gleamed with pride, but with dread.
And so, the king's decree had been spoken.
The Forbidden Forest, sacred and ancient, would bleed.
And the man who would cut it down… had just begun to sharpen his blade.