— Very well then, said Aranael in a neutral, smooth tone, as if nothing had just happened, as if the monts of suffocation, of extre tension, of contained fear were nothing more than a draft in a well-sealed room.
Then she turned her unfathomable eyes toward .
Two bottomless abysses. Two shards of silence that even the centuries no longer dared to disturb.
— It’s your turn to choose now, Lukaris.
I didn’t want to make her wait. Not a second. Not a breath. There was no room for hesitation, no space for slow reflection or deferred strategy. Sothing in , older than thought, stronger than fatigue, took over — and guided .
My body, though weakened, aching, drained by the intensity of this assembly, rose in one single motion. My mind, still trembling under Aranael’s pressure, yielded without resistance, without fear, without retreat.
I spoke her na in total obedience, in solemn certainty, like a vow.
— Lysara.
The person behind .
The air under the tent seed to freeze.
The silence, this ti, wasn’t just heavy. It was tense, charged, almost nervous.
I felt the gazes converge on , heavy, calculated, filled with irritation — perhaps even anger. I could almost hear, beneath the muffled silence, the invisible click of clenched jaws, of restrained judgnts. In this choice, they saw sothing they disapproved of, or sothing they didn’t understand. Maybe favoritism. Maybe weakness.
But none dared speak. Not after what Aranael had said.
And she, without a flinch, without the slightest change in tone, confird with a voice as simple as an ancient truth:
— Very well.
And that was all. But it was enough.
Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, Aranael turned toward Ornée.
— Let us continue.
— Yes, Mada, replied Ornée imdiately, bowing slowly, her hands crossed over her heart, straight, dignified, as calm as if nothing could ever disturb her voice.
She straightened with no haste, with a fluidity that bordered on ritual, then resud speaking with the poised clarity of those who know they are heard without needing to raise their voice:
— The third and final issue concerns access to the world sealed within the crystal. Among the forty-eight chosen from the twelve races, only four individuals will be able to enter each day. That is why the tamorphic Sovereign has structured the groups based on a fixed principle: teams of four, ford within each race.
She paused briefly, not to breathe, but to let the idea settle in everyone’s mind, then let her gaze slowly sweep the entire table, as if to ensure no one looked away.
— Thus, the four selected from each race must then take part in an inter-species tournant. This tournant will determine the entry order of the twelve races during the first twelve days of the crystal’s opening. Each match will be structured as a team battle, four against four, and each victory will secure an entry slot — the sooner you win, the sooner you enter.
She paused again, this ti more deliberately, not to punctuate, but to heighten the stakes. Then, when she resud, her voice had shifted slightly — slower, deeper, almost solemn.
— For this, once our quartet is chosen, they must be trained. Strengthened. United. Prepared. They will not be re fighters. They must beco a squad. A collective entity. And for them to beco that... we need to appoint an instructor. Soone among the mbers here present, capable of guiding them, of raising them, of forging them.
The weight of that word fell like a stone into black water. Forging.
A brief silence followed, dense, tense, almost enclosed in a tacit expectation. Then Ornée, upright and solemn, let the question fall with the asured slowness of one who knows how to weigh every word before offering it to the room:
— Are there any volunteers?
The sentence had barely left her lips when Fillin seed to react. His eyes had already lit with a discreet but vibrant spark. One could see he had straightened ever so slightly, as if the prospect awakened sothing ancient in him, a role he had longed to reclaim. He was about to speak — his body revealed it before his voice, ready to answer, to take on the responsibility with the seriousness he was known for.
But he didn’t have the ti.
A voice cut him off. Icy. Clear. Implacable.
A voice that shattered the air like frost breaking a glass too hot.
— It will be .
Aranael.
That was all she said, once again.
The effect was imdiate. A wave of even heavier silence fell over the assembly, as if each being around the table, in an instant, rembered exactly where they were. Even Fillin, imposing as he was, true to his convictions, lowered his gaze humbly — not out of sha, but by pure reflex — as if respect had shot down his spine before even reaching his mind.
Ornée inclined her head slightly, with the elegance that was hers, and replied in a voice as clear as it was respectful:
— Very well, Mada.
Then, with a slight inflection, almost like an offering:
— They will experience a dream under your tutelage. A most honorable choice.
Then she concluded.
Straight. Serene. In an unchanged tone, calm and firm at once, as one closes an ancient, near-sacred ceremony — without pathos, but with all the precision of an act repeated for centuries without ever losing its weight.
— The intra-vampiric tournant will begin tomorrow, at four hours past Dawn.
She paused briefly, perfectly tid, giving each the space to absorb the unfolding schedule.
— The inter-species tournant is set for two weeks from now.
Her voice did not vary.
She laid out the frawork of an irreversible chanism, and everyone could feel the gears had begun to turn.
— The crystal’s opening is estimated by our experts to take place in three weeks.
Then, without raising her voice, without adding weight to what was already engraved, she bowed her head one final ti.
— This concludes our eting.
And it was as if an invisible thread had just been cut.
The collective tension, which until then had held every body in silent restraint, loosened. Just enough for us to begin breathing again without thinking. No one spoke. No glance sought out another.
Each rose in turn, in a slow silence, as if they still feared disturbing the space left by those last words. And one by one, the Lords left the tent, wordless, in a religious, almost funereal silence — as if sothing far greater than any of us had been summoned here... and it was best not to awaken it any further.
But Cassandre did not leave.
I saw her stay there, at Aranael’s side, unmoving, upright, as if suspended in another reality, in a ti that no longer included . There was in her posture sothing frozen, not by fear nor by loyalty, but by necessity. As if her place, at that mont, could not be elsewhere.
And I... could only accept it.
Reluctantly, teeth clenched behind silence, I turned on my heel.
Thus ended this eting. Cold. Freezing on every level. Too heavy to leave without consequences. It had drained more than I would have thought — not by conflict, but by the constant pressure that had saturated the air — that mix of invisible hierarchy, ancient codes, and burning unspoken truths.
A guard awaited outside, discreet, professional, without an unnecessary word. He guided directly to my quarters.
And it was there, between those black drapes stretched by a hand I did not know, that I understood my life had just shifted once again.
I now shared the sa tent as Lysara.
A first night in this new destiny.
A night without battle, without running, without cries — but weighed down by a future already moving in the shadows, carried by the immortal one.
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