NOVEL WEB Chapter 49: Council
A week had crawled by, and the events of the past days had hit the Eisenklinge family hard. A commander of an order was dead. Deep in Eisenhart, in a room buried in the patriarch's castle, a meeting was about to decide the fate of an empire.
The room was quiet, not empty quiet, but the kind of heavy silence that comes before a storm.
Light poured through tall, narrow windows set high along the stone walls, casting long golden beams across a floor of polished black marble. Silver veins ran through the stone. There were no colorful tapestries, no cheerful banners. Only the Eisenklinge crest, a silver blade surrounded by six elemental symbols, carved deep into the wall behind the patriarch's seat.
This wasn't a room for parties or celebrations.
It was a chamber where judgment was passed, strategies were born, and laws were written in blood.
Lord Alaric sat at the head of the round table, not above the others, but unmistakably at the center of everything.
His chair was tall and proud, carved from darkheart oak and trimmed with silversteel that caught the light. No fancy decorations, just the family crest etched into its crown. Under his presence, even the air seemed to hold its breath.
He wore robes of black and deep crimson, with a clasp of cold iron at his shoulder. His face was unreadable. Not cold, not cruel—just absolutely in control.
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Around him in a careful arc sat six seats—each carved to match his own, though everyone knew better than to think they were equals.
Artair de Eisenklinge, His thick arms rested on the table, fingers pressed together. His weathered face was creased with worry, and his eyes kept flicking around.
Jura de Eisenklinge, Thin and composed, his hands folded in his lap. His gaze swept the room with slow patience. His face was calm, but behind his glasses, his eyes were sharp. He had the look of a man who could smile while signing your death warrant.
Tomas de Eisenklinge, He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, a silver quill in one hand tracing lazy circles over his palm. His face was focused, his mind clearly racing ahead of everyone else's.
Mael de Eisenklinge, He sat trying very hard not to punch something. His jaw was clenched tight, his fingers tapping a slow, dangerous rhythm on the wood. Fire burned in his eyes, controlled, but barely.
Stefan de Eisenklinge, Relaxed in his seat, Stefan had a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. But underneath the casual smile was a predator's curiosity.
Roland du Eisenklinge, The only man at the table not born with pure Eisenklinge blood flowing through his veins.
His uniform bore the family crest in silver thread, and though his back was straight, you could see the tension coiled under his collar. His face was calm, but his eyes were careful—aware of every glance, every unspoken threat hanging in the air.
He didn't fidget. He didn't interrupt. He didn't even breathe too loudly.
He knew the rules: one seat for all the branch families, and his alone to carry the voice of thirteen bloodlines.
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No voices had broken the silence yet.
Lord Alaric rested one hand on his chair's armrest, the other lightly touching the table's edge. His eyes moved from man to man, stopping last on Roland.
Only then, with a voice that carried no threat yet could silence a thunderstorm, he spoke:
"Let us begin."
The Eisenklinge family was strange. All the members shared the same last name, but there was clearly a pecking order, and everyone knew their place thanks to the numbering system.
The families were numbered one through thirteen, and right now, number one was about to speak. Artair de Eisenklinge, the family leader for the first family and the man who never wasted words.
He bowed briefly to the patriarch, more like a quick nod than actual respect, and without waiting for permission, began to speak. "It has been brought to our attention that we have yet again lost one of our commanders to the same hidden enemy. The one that keeps slipping through our fingers after killing members of our family and citizens of the human domain."
He paused, letting his words sink in, then turned his gaze through the gathered faces. "But that was before. Now we have information on our side."
The eyes of everyone in the room except Alaric went wide. The rumors that had spread after the explosion, visible even over the wall, only spoke of Elowen le Eisenklinge's death. The news that her subordinate had made it back to Eisenhart was kept secret, to prevent assassins from hunting him down.
Only the important ones like Alaric and the other knight commanders knew the full truth. Everyone else would have to wait their turn. Erik had been placed under the protection of the Lion Order's commander, Daimon de Eisenklinge.
The door to the room opened with a creak that seemed to echo forever. Footsteps could be heard, multiple footsteps, in fact.
An ominous presence rolled in with the sound, and when the source got closer, the person on the other side could be seen. A mountain of a man who could probably win any arm wrestling match stepped into view. He was built strong, with short curly black hair and crimson eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light. He looked handsome in that dangerous way that made smart people step aside, and power radiated from him, the unmistakable aura of a Grandmaster.
He stepped in with a grin plastered wide across his face, and behind him, Erik followed quietly.
Erik's eyes were darkened and hollow. Someone had reached in and stolen the light from them. He still hadn't recovered from the nightmare of the past week. As they entered the room, the doors shut behind them with a final thud, and the tension in the room jumped up several notches.
Daimon, paying absolutely no respect to the council members or their fancy titles, walked straight to sit beside Alaric. He left Erik standing in the center. As he took his seat, he shot Alaric a look and said with a casual nod, "Brother!"
Alaric didn't turn but replied with his own nod.
The others, except Artair, had expressions of pure contempt for the ignorant commander who was obviously drunk on his own power. But Daimon didn't care, he probably wouldn't have cared if they all burst into flames. The tension became so thick you could cut it with a knife, until Artair had to clear his throat.
He pointed to Erik as he continued, "This is the subordinate of our late commander and the lone survivor of their expedition before the tragic incident. He will now tell us exactly what happened during their mission."
As Artair took his seat, Erik sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Before he began to speak, he paid his respects with a bow that looked like it hurt his soul, then started to tell the story of everything that had happened, leaving no stone unturned.
But there was one problem, one crack in the foundation. Elowen had been the only one who had torn through the Ouroboros Accord's hideout, being the only one who could do so without drawing attention. She had told them what she thought they needed to know, but left out other important details, like who in the family and the empire were spies for the Accord, and how their organization actually worked.
Erik only knew they were a new terrorist group and that they were the cause of the recent deaths in the empire. After he finished sharing his information, he stopped, tears trickling down his face from the pain of coming back alone when he should have come back with everyone.
The patriarch's council turned silent, heavy with the weight of what had just been revealed. Everyone around the table now had their gazes turned to one point, to Alaric, and they all had the same question burning in their minds.
What happens next?
The silence stretched, ready to snap at any moment. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, as if the world itself was holding its breath for the patriarch's decision.
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(A/N)
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