HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The scent of smoke still clung to Ryon's cloak as he stepped through the rain-slicked streets toward the looming silhouette of the Council Hall. His boots struck the cobblestones with an unyielding rhythm, every step echoing the choice he had made. He could still feel the weight of the battlefield on his shoulders—the screams, the clash of steel, the unnatural storm that had torn through the sky like the wrath of gods. Blood and Storm had been a crucible, and he had come out of it sharpened to a single purpose: the Council would hear him, or they would fall.

Around him, the city lay bruised and uneasy. Lanterns swayed in the wet wind, casting dim halos on faces pale with exhaustion. Vendors closed their stalls early, glancing over their shoulders as if shadows themselves had grown teeth. The news of the battle at the border had spread faster than the rain; whispers of Ryon's defiance at the frontlines were already crawling into taverns and alleyways. He could feel the eyes on him—some hopeful, some fearful, some calculating.

The Hall rose ahead, its jagged towers of black stone etched with runes that shimmered faintly under the drizzle. It had been built from the bones of the first war, its foundations laid over the ashes of the old kings. Tonight, those bones would be rattled. Two guards in polished mail barred the doors, halberds crossed, their faces hidden beneath visored helms.

"Lord Ryon," one said, voice muffled but tense. "The Council is in session. No visitors without summons."

Ryon met his gaze—or rather, the narrow slit of it. "Tell them the border holds because I stood in the storm they hid from. Tell them I have come to speak for those who cannot." His voice carried no shout, yet it rolled like distant thunder, the kind that promises the air will split.

The guards hesitated. Protocol warred with fear. One shifted his grip, glancing to the other before nodding. "Wait here." He disappeared inside, leaving Ryon in the dripping silence.

Minutes passed, but they did not dull his resolve. When the guard returned, his visor tipped fractionally lower, as if even looking at Ryon felt dangerous. "You may enter."

The Council Hall was a cathedral of authority, vast and cold. Stained-glass windows depicted the victories of the past, the heroes frozen in triumphant poses that somehow felt hollow now. The long, crescent table of dark oak dominated the center, around which sat twelve figures robed in the deep scarlet of their station. Behind them, banners of each province hung heavy, some darker at the edges from age—or smoke.

At the head sat Councilor Vareth, his silver hair pulled back so tight it seemed to stretch his skin. His eyes were sharp as drawn steel, but Ryon had seen that steel bend before. Beside him, Councilor Ilrane adjusted her rings, her lips already curling in faint disapproval.

"Ryon of the South," Vareth began, his tone polished and cold. "We did not summon you."

"And yet here I am," Ryon said, striding to the center of the hall. Water dripped from his cloak onto the mosaic floor, blurring the inlaid crest of the realm. "The front bleeds, and you debate from behind walls. I will not wait for an invitation while men and women die."

A murmur rose among the councilors. Some frowned; others leaned forward with interest. Councilor Belthis, whose lands bordered the warzone, looked down as if the table had suddenly grown fascinating.

"You speak out of turn," Ilrane said, voice dripping with the slow poison of court politics. "And yet you come wrapped in arrogance. Do you believe the Council does not act?"

"I believe you hide behind action measured in words," Ryon snapped. "While you deliberate, the enemy gathers. While you weigh the costs, the living pay them in blood."

Vareth's eyes narrowed. "What would you have us do, boy? Empty the city of soldiers? Strip the garrisons? Risk everything on rash strikes that could fail?"

"Risk is all we have left," Ryon said, stepping closer to the table until the nearest councilor's robes brushed his arm. "I have seen their magic. I have seen what they call from the void. Every day we delay gives them ground, gives them breath, gives them the chance to grow stronger. You sit here counting coin and casualties as if numbers could win a war."

The silence that followed was taut, trembling with the possibility of fracture.

Then Councilor Mareth, one of the older voices and known for measured wisdom, spoke. "You accuse us of cowardice?"

"I accuse you of forgetting what you swore," Ryon said, his voice lowering into something dangerous. "You swore to protect the realm. Not your seats. Not your names in the archives. The realm. The people. If the South falls, if the borders crumble, your banners will burn just the same as ours."

Ilrane's mouth tightened, but Vareth lifted a hand. "And what, Lord Ryon, do you propose instead of our current measures?"

Ryon drew in a slow breath, letting the weight of the hall settle on him. "A unified front. Not fragmented commands. Not endless debate. One army, one will. I will lead it."

Gasps scattered through the chamber. Some councilors laughed—short, incredulous bursts quickly smothered when they saw he did not flinch.

"You?" Belthis said, finally lifting his gaze. "You think the realm would follow you?"

"They already do," Ryon replied, and in that moment he knew it was true. He had seen it in the eyes of the soldiers at the front, the way they rallied when he moved, the way they fought like the fire in his veins had spilled into theirs. "Not because of my name. Because I stand where it is worst, and I do not break."

Vareth leaned back, fingers steepled. "You presume much, Lord Ryon."

"I presume nothing," Ryon said. "I state what the war demands. You can give me command, or you can cling to your chairs until the enemy rips them from beneath you."

The council broke into overlapping voices, arguments flaring like sparks from dry tinder. Some called him reckless, others bold. Mareth alone watched in silence, his eyes thoughtful.

The rain outside turned harder, drumming against the windows as if the storm itself wanted in. Ryon stood unmoving at the center, letting them argue, letting the truth he'd planted take root.

Finally, Mareth raised his hand. The voices stilled. "I move that we consider Lord Ryon's proposal. Not for his sake, but for the realm's. We will put it to vote."

Vareth's gaze cut to him like a blade. "You risk much."

"We all do," Mareth replied.

One by one, hands lifted. The motion passed by a margin so slim it could have been a breath. Vareth's jaw tightened. "So be it. Lord Ryon, the unified command is yours. May the gods judge you kindly if this fails."

Ryon inclined his head, but inside, a different fire burned. It would not fail. Not while he still drew breath.

As he turned to leave, Ilrane's voice followed him, soft but sharp enough to draw blood. "Be careful what you bind yourself to, Ryon. Oaths are chains as much as they are shields."

He glanced back. "Then let the chains be fire."

The doors closed behind him, sealing the Council in their echoing hall. Outside, the rain had eased, but the wind carried the scent of distant smoke. The realm had given him its command; now he would wield it like the blade it deserved to be.

And in the shadows across the street, a pair of unseen eyes watched him go, lips curling into a smile that promised trouble yet to come.