Lyron's mind was utterly shaken, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm, when he heard Kael mutter the name of Duke Sylas. The moment the name left Kael's lips, it sent a shiver down his spine. He knew he had to remain composed—at least enough to ask a question or two. It was necessary, a duty almost, to understand what had transpired. But over a million chaotic thoughts surged through him, clashing violently, each demanding attention. He had no idea where to begin, for the stress pressing against his mind was almost unbearable.
"Lord Kael… what of Duke Sylas? What has he done?" Lyron finally asked, his voice taut with tension, trembling slightly yet laced with concern. His heart pounded as though it sought to escape his chest. Never before had he seen his lord in such disarray, and the sight filled him with an uncharacteristic pang of sorrow. He watched, intensely focused, as Kael slowly released his grip on the arm of his chair, the anguish etched into his features pouring out like blood from an open wound.
Kael, though only in his mid-twenties, carried a presence far older than his years. His eyes, dark and piercing, held the weight of power and dread, yet beneath that facade, the news he had received had left him pale, his countenance frail and almost ghostly. The tension around him was so dense that it pressed against Lyron's chest like the walls of a suffocating crypt. Even to speak seemed an insurmountable challenge.
Lyron's gaze swept over the grand hall of Kael's domain, the City of Skill, and for a moment, he allowed himself to note the disarray. Servants scurried, corridors seemed unnaturally still, and the torches along the walls flickered as if in empathy with the turmoil within Kael. The club—this fortress of shadows and whispered power—appeared unnervingly chaotic. Yet, Lyron forced his focus back to Kael, refusing to be distracted by the surroundings.
"What did he do? Please, Lord Kael, tell me what that wretch has done. I am ready to punish him, truly," Lyron spoke, the edge in his voice unyielding. Every word carried conviction; every syllable was a vow of loyalty and impending retribution. His mind whispered relentlessly: No one dares to challenge Kael or the Red Feather Squad and escape unscathed. He would see justice served, and he would be the instrument of it.
Kael's gaze bore into Lyron, unflinching, his eyes a storm of fury tempered by icy control. The weight of the news still pressed upon him, leaving him momentarily unable to meet Lyron's stare. He clenched his jaw, and for a heartbeat, the silence between them became a chasm, each man's heartbeat echoing in the grand hall like distant thunder. Lyron began to doubt whether he would receive any answers at all, yet he waited, patient but tense, for the storm to break.
Finally, Kael spoke, his voice low, jagged with disbelief. "I cannot believe it… it was Louis who called me just now. I wish he had not. I am yet to digest the news of Duke Sylas ascending as Governor of the City of Skill, and now… another calamity has struck. It is worse than I could have imagined."
His words fell heavy in the hall, mingling with the scent of burning cedar from the torches and the faint tang of spilt wine that had stained the polished stones earlier in the week. Lyron listened, his fingers clenched into fists, as the layers of dread wrapped around them both like a dense fog. Kael's usual composure, so formidable, had shattered. The air vibrated with the unspoken rage, frustration, and fear of a lord whose world was tipping into chaos.
Lyron's eyes lifted, sharp and unyielding, searching Kael's face for clarity. He needed the truth, every shard of it, and the delay gnawed at him. He understood that Kael was burdened, yet the truth must be unveiled. He could not stand idle, for the longer the silence persisted, the more dangerous the situation became.
Kael exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling with a ragged rhythm, before spilling the weight of his thoughts. "The problem… Duke Sylas has scarcely settled into the Governor's House of the City of Skill, and already he seeks dominion over the Warden of Abyss. He aspires to consolidate power, to place the land itself under his grasp. Who gave him the audacity to attempt such a thing?"
Lyron's jaw tightened, the fury coiling within him like a viper. Every word Kael spoke was a spark, igniting a fire in his veins. The audacity of Sylas was intolerable, and the thought of him gaining more power sent a cold, primal rage through Lyron's chest. He clenched his teeth, fighting to maintain composure while a storm brewed behind his eyes.
Kael's hand moved, almost absent-mindedly, adjusting the heavy, embroidered cloak around his shoulders. The hall seemed to contract, the torches flickering as though mirroring the turbulence within him. "It is unbearable, Lyron. If we allow this… if he becomes president, the Red Feather Squad will be undone. All we have built… all the blood, the loyalty, the secrets we have cultivated… for naught. He must be stopped."
Lyron's thoughts raced. The Duke of Lyria, Sylas, was formidable, but not infallible. Yet, Kael's tone left no room for doubt. Action was imperative. "Lord Kael, how do you wish it done?" he asked, voice steady, though every fiber of his being vibrated with anticipation.
Kael's gaze bore into him, eyes icy yet alight with barely restrained fury. "We track him. We eliminate him. Before he can entrench himself further, before the votes are cast and the people are swayed, he must be removed from the game entirely."
The enormity of the task hit Lyron like a hammer. To confront a man protected by loyal guards, entrenched within fortified halls, was no trivial matter. Yet the clarity of purpose, the stark inevitability in Kael's tone, left him with no choice. This was duty. This was loyalty. And failure was inconceivable.
"How does he expect to control both seats of power?" Lyron demanded, the question raw with disbelief.
Kael's expression darkened further, his hands tightening into fists on the armrests. "Do not remind me, Lyron. There are scars I do not wish to revisit. The audacity of this man… it is as if the very land itself conspires against us. Our enemies, hidden in the shadows, wait to strike. Sylas is but a harbinger. He must be stopped."
Lyron nodded, determination settling over him like armor. The Red Feather Squad's survival, their dominance, and Kael's legacy rested upon the actions they would take next. Every thought, every breath, every movement must be precise. There could be no misstep.
Kael leaned back, his piercing gaze meeting Lyron's with unwavering intensity. "Lyron… if Sylas becomes president of the Warden of Abyss, we are finished. You would not complete my missions. You would be captured, the squad destroyed. We cannot allow it. The votes are two weeks hence. That is all the time we have. You understand what must be done?"
Lyron's teeth ground together, his heart pounding with the gravity of the task. "I understand, Lord Kael. Nothing will stand in our way."
Kael's eyes softened for a fleeting moment, though the weight of fury and sorrow never fully lifted. "Go then, Lyron. Prepare yourself. Sylas must fall before he rises. And remember—he must never see us coming."
As Lyron turned to leave, his mind churned with strategy, fury, and the unyielding sense of duty. The corridors of Kael's hall, lined with flickering torches and the shadows of ancient stone carvings, seemed alive with the gravity of what was to come. Outside, the night wind whispered through the City of Skill, carrying with it the scent of impending war, of blood yet to be shed, and of power yet to be seized.
Lyron's hands clenched. His eyes burned with determination. Duke Sylas of Maevrix would meet the wrath of Kael's Red Feather Squad—and he would see, firsthand, the consequences of daring to challenge the might of the lord of the City of Skill.