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The city moved before it spoke.
Ink dried on parchment while arguments were still unfinished. Wax seals were pressed by hands that had already decided, even as mouths pretended deliberation. Messengers crossed courtyards and corridors with practiced urgency, boots echoing against stone that had heard such sounds before—usually too late.
This time, there was no denial.
No dismissal.
No laughter behind closed doors.
The city had reached the point where hesitation itself had become dangerous.
Rexor de Strauss noticed the change before anyone told him.
When the summons came, it did not arrive with chains or silence. It came with a knock. Polite. Formal. Almost respectful.
Two guards waited outside the quarters. Their armor was the same, but their posture was not. Backs straight. Eyes forward. No tension in their hands.
They were not guarding prisoners anymore.
They were escorting assets.
"This way," one of them said, inclining his head slightly.
Rexor stood without comment. Voryn was already on his feet.
As they walked the corridors, Rexor felt the shift in the air. Fewer whispers cut short at their passing. Fewer sideways glances. Instead, there were looks held too long—assessing, measuring.
Listening.
"They're afraid," Rexor muttered quietly.
Voryn's gaze did not move. "No," he replied. "They've accepted that fear is unavoidable."
Rexor frowned. "That's worse."
"Yes."
The chamber they were brought to was not the grand court. It was smaller, older—stone darker with age, maps carved directly into the walls rather than hung as banners. This was a room built for decisions, not ceremonies.
August Engelbert stood near the center, hands clasped behind his back. Sir Thomas Aurelius was already present, leaning against the stone table with arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Other figures occupied the edges of the room. Nobles. Advisors. Observers who would later claim they had always supported this course of action.
August turned as Rexor and Voryn entered.
"You were heard," he said immediately. "And you were verified."
No preamble. No softening.
"The disturbances in the Outer Lands are real," August continued. "Patterns long dismissed as coincidence now show consistency. Escalation. Intent."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"Several reports were suppressed," August went on calmly. "Not by this court alone."
Eyes shifted. Some hardened.
"Certain royal families feared imbalance," he said. "They feared that acknowledging the truth would force action before they were prepared."
Rexor spoke before he could stop himself. "People died because of that."
August met his gaze. He did not deny it.
"Truth," August said, "is not rejected because it is false. It is rejected because it is inconvenient."
Silence followed.
Sir Thomas straightened.
"The court has authorized a sanctioned Outer Lands Exploration and Suppression Party," he announced. His voice carried without effort. "Its stated purpose is reconnaissance, threat assessment, and stabilization of frontier anomalies."
Everyone in the room understood what he did not say.
Preparation.
Containment.
War, if necessary.
"This party will operate with conditional autonomy," Thomas continued. "It will not answer to political councils in the field. Decisions will be made on-site. Consequences will be accounted for later."
That last line caused visible discomfort.
Good.
Rexor felt the weight settle on his shoulders before anyone said his name.
"Rexor de Strauss," Thomas said, turning slightly toward him. "You will lead."
Not command. Not govern.
Lead.
By intent.
Rexor inhaled slowly. "I didn't ask for that."
Thomas nodded. "That's why it's yours."
August stepped forward. "You will choose additional members," he said. "Within reason."
Rexor's jaw tightened. "Define 'reason.'"
August's mouth curved faintly. "Capability."
That surprised him.
"Who else would you trust with your life?" August asked.
The question echoed louder than it should have.
Rexor did not answer immediately.
He thought of titles. Banners. Bloodlines.
Then he thought of survival.
"People who can act without permission," Rexor said finally. "People who won't freeze when plans fail."
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably.
"I want a strategist who understands retreat as well as victory," Rexor continued. "A healer who can think under pressure, not just pray. Fighters who know when to break formation. Mages who don't burn everything just to prove power."
August watched him closely.
"No regard for status?" someone asked sharply.
Rexor looked at them. "Status doesn't stop bleeding."
The room went quiet.
Sir Thomas nodded once.
"And him?" a voice asked, sharp with challenge, gesturing toward Voryn. "What authority does he hold?"
Before Rexor could speak, Thomas turned fully.
"If he says retreat, you retreat," Thomas said evenly.
"If he says run, you run.
If he says nothing—pray."
No explanation followed.
Voryn did not react. He neither acknowledged the statement nor rejected it. He simply stood, hands at his sides, as though the words had nothing to do with him.
That silence settled deeper than any oath.
August exhaled slowly. "You will be observed," he said to both of them. "Closely."
"Good," Rexor replied. "We don't intend to disappear."
The meeting dissolved into logistics after that. Routes discussed. Supplies allocated. Limits drawn and quietly ignored.
When it was over, Rexor and Voryn stepped into the corridor alone.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"This isn't ours anymore," Rexor said at last.
Voryn nodded. "No."
Rexor leaned against the stone wall, staring at the torchlight flickering along the corridor. "Do you think we survive this?"
Voryn considered the question carefully.
"Some of us," he said. "Not unchanged."
Rexor let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Preparations began before the day ended.
Maps were unrolled across long stone tables. Old trade routes were crossed out with charcoal. New paths were sketched into blank stone where no roads had ever been officially acknowledged. Supply lists grew longer. Contingencies grew darker.
Then August raised a hand.
"Names," he said.
The room stilled.
A young man stepped forward first.
"I am Noah von Astreas," he said, voice composed but not arrogant. His robes were clean, unornamented—mage attire worn with restraint rather than display. His eyes were sharp, observant, already reading the room instead of seeking approval.
"Son of Alexander Astreas. Grandson of Nathaniel von Astreas."
That name landed heavily.
A noble scoffed quietly. "Sixteen," someone muttered. "Too young."
Nathaniel's interest silenced the rest.
"I specialize in controlled spell formation and spatial analysis," Noah continued. "I am not here to overpower threats. I am here to understand them."
Rexor nodded once.
Next came a girl with tied-back hair and clear, calculating eyes.
"Addie Engelbert," she said. "Strategist."
A ripple moved through the chamber.
August did not look at her.
"She is my daughter," he said plainly. "And she earned this place without my name."
Someone snorted. "Another child."
Addie didn't react. "If you want courage, bring banners," she said coolly. "If you want survival, bring planning."
No one argued.
A girl in church-white stepped forward next, hands folded calmly.
"Sofia Astrid Lexamus," she said. "Healer and buffer. Contractor under the God of Creation."
A pause.
"Daughter of Lucas Lexamus."
That drew attention.
A priest whispered, "So young for a contract."
Sofia met her gaze evenly. "Creation doesn't wait for age."
Next was a boy in light armor—too light for a knight by tradition, but worn with confidence.
"Robert Alphonse," he said, standing straight. "Knight-in-training. Son of Parnas Alphonse."
Someone laughed openly this time. "A child knight?"
Robert didn't flinch. "I don't break formation," he said. "And I don't run unless ordered."
Sir Thomas watched him longer than the others.
Fire answered before it was introduced.
A girl stepped forward with barely contained heat rolling off her presence.
"Emilia Magnus," she said sharply. "Fire mage. Daughter of Embeden Magnus."
A noble leaned to another. "She's not strong enough."
Emilia heard him.
"Not yet," she snapped. "But fire doesn't need permission to grow."
The wind shifted next.
A calm presence, almost easy to miss.
"Eva Windbloom," she said softly. "Wind mage. Daughter of Adam Windbloom."
Someone frowned. "Her mana output is low."
Eva tilted her head. "Wind doesn't win by force," she replied. "It wins by persistence."
Silence followed.
Rexor looked at them.
Sixteen.
Every one of them.
Not chosen for comfort. Not chosen for politics.
Chosen because they would still move when adults hesitated.
"This is your party," August said quietly. "Young. Unproven. Watched."
Rexor met each of their eyes in turn.
"No," he said. "This is our risk."
No one smiled.
That was enough.
They gathered around the maps—not as friends, not as soldiers—but as people standing on the edge of something they could no longer step away from.
No unity yet.
No trust.
Only alignment.
Outside, the city walls loomed—tall, unbroken, confident. Lanterns glowed along peaceful streets. Guards laughed softly. Homes slept under the illusion of permanence.
Safe.
For now.
Rexor understood it then, with a clarity that surprised him.
The city believed it had sent scouts.
It did not yet understand—
It had released the future.
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