High Council's Chambers

Evander Thorne

The air was thick with smoke and the tang of iron. Evander wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands coated in dust and iron filings. The frame of the trebuchet loomed above him like a sleeping giant, its counterweight still unfilled, its arm unfinished. He crouched near the base, tightening the bolts with methodical care. Every timber groaned under its own weight, every joint had to be perfect.

Evander liked to take his time with his work, make sure every atom was where it was supposed to be. Precision was his art. Unfortunately for him, this one was rushed. The trebuchet wasn’t ready, not the way he wanted it. But it had to be completed by sundown. Orders had come down directly from Daren: by dawn, the siege engines needed to be in place. Tomorrow, Daren planned to march his forces at Fort Beverstone, and if all goes well, it would be a massive push against the Lucian line.

Evander ran his fingers along the beam’s edge, feeling the unevenness where the carpenters had hastily patched a split in the timber. It would hold, for now. But not forever. He cursed under his breath and moved to check the winch mechanism, tightening one of the heavy brass fittings with a long wrench.

Around him, the Zadale engineers and soldiers moved like ants, passing crates filled with tools, iron rods, bundles of twisted rope, oil, and other equipment. Evander barely noticed them. His mind was on the machine, the machine, always the machine.

Evander’s workshop could be found in the military ward, making sure it's close to The Crucible, and weaponry could be moved efficiently. The room he worked in was wide enough to be considered a hall and tall enough to accommodate the arm of a trebuchet currently being assembled upright. Thick wooden beams braced the ceiling, blackened from years of oil lamps and forge smoke.

On one side of the room lay a table, almost as long as the trebuchet Evander worked on was tall. The surface was scattered with tools, cogs, scrap metal, and stacks of blueprints, many of them drawn in Evander’s own hand. Some were detailed diagrams of siege engines or ballistae; others were half-finished sketches of many personal creations, where inspiration had haunted him in the middle of a sleepless night. This was the heart of Evander's world. As long as he continued to engineer weapons for the Zadale army, Daren had an excuse to supply him with what he needed: materials, labor, and funding for both his official commissions and his personal projects.

Behind the table stood the product of his greatest obsession: a towering figure of forged steel and iron, shaped like a humanoid warrior. A war machine. A sentinel. A hope.

A Warforge, as Evander called it, loomed over the room like a silent guardian. Its metallic frame shining as it reflected the flickering lantern light. The exoskeleton was complete: thick plates and reinforced joints, designed to mimic the strength of ten men. The chest cavity gaped open, waiting for the mechanisms that would one day bring it to life.

Evander often stood there, staring at it, imagining the machine come to life. That was the dream. That one day this machine would be able to make things easy for every living being. It would cook, hunt, till the fields if needed. It would patrol the streets of Zadale, keeping them safe. It would make sure no Zadalyn life was lost to war and no soldier would fall to another arrow, for these machines would fight in their place.

But the dream was still far from reality. The inner workings remained unfinished: ideas that remained in his mind and sketches on his table. And the greatest challenge of all was the heart of the machine. It would need a power source, something strong enough to animate that hulking form, and stable enough not to tear itself apart. A problem for another night.

For now, the machine stood still, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Evander continued to work on the trebuchet. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms streaked with grease and sawdust, and his eyes were covered with his goggles. He tightened the last iron pin with a wrench, feeling it bite firmly into place. The trebuchet creaked as if it too was bracing for the battle to come.

He made sure the rope was firmly attached and the pouch was strong enough to hold the required load. Now all that was left was putting in the counterweight. He'd have someone else deal with that; right now, he wanted to report back to Daren. Tell him the job is done.

He set his tools down on the edge of the long table, wiped his hands on a rag already stained dark with oil, and reached for his coat. Slinging it over his shoulders, he stepped out of the workshop and into the cool winter air.

Zadale’s streets were busy at this hour. Messengers moved swiftly between buildings, horses pulled wagons laden with crates, and there was the distant ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer. Evander walked with purpose, boots heavy on the cobblestones, heading toward the heart of the city’s military district. The Crucible.

As he walked, Evander’s thoughts drifted to the past. He and Daren had applied to the academy together, full of ambition. But Evander had never been a fighter, and he never made it past the basic trials. It felt like only yesterday when the two of them had met Silene in the stone halls of the academy, and how quickly the three had grown close. Yet the difference between them had never felt clearer, mainly with how quickly Daren had climbed the ranks to become a General. To Evander, it almost felt effortless, like the gods themselves had carved a path for him.

Stolen novel; please report.

As he walked passed the many barracks, the Crucible loomed larger. Its high walls were adorned with banners bearing the city’s emblem of a red falcon. Guards stood at the arched entrance, nodding at Evander as he approached. "Is Daren in his office?" Evander asked casually, not wanting to waste time.

“I’m afraid not,” the guard replied. “He was summoned to the High Council's Chambers.”

Evander let out a quiet sigh. Of course. That meant a walk all the way to the North Ward. Without another word, he turned and began moving.

The midday sun bore down as Evander made his way through the bustling streets. His boots kicked up dust from the well-worn road as he passed rows of soldiers at practice yards and quartermasters shouting orders.

The stone-and-iron rigidity of the military ward gave way, almost abruptly, to a space of quiet. Notte’s Garden. A soft breeze stirred the tall grass and the white-blossomed trees that lined the path. Here and there, small offerings had been left at the foot of the central monument, tokens of remembrance. A worn helmet. A strip of cloth. A simple carved bird. The stone wall at the garden’s heart bore hundreds of names chiseled deep. Names of those who had stood where he stood and fallen so that the rest of the city could carry on. These names were one of the many reasons Evander wanted his warforge project to be successful. Because these names didn't get to walk in this garden, and he did.

Beyond the garden, the path curved gently northward, and the first signs of the Northern Ward came into view. The grander buildings, cleaner streets, and the faint signs of politics and privilege. Then came the High Council's Chambers, its white stone walls catching the sunlight like polished bone. To Evander, the building had always felt less like a seat of governance and more like a monument to pride. Its tall spires stretched skyward, as if trying to claw a piece of the heavens for themselves.

This was the political heart of Zadale.

Inside, banners of noble houses hung from both ends of the wide entrance hall. Ahead, two marble staircases curved upward, mirroring one another, along with corridors branching off in either direction. As Evander ascended, he passed narrow stained-glass windows lining the upper floor, each pane a frozen fragment of Zadale’s glorified past.

Heroes stood with swords raised high, falcons dove mid-hunt, and kings extended blessings with outstretched hands. The sunlight passing through them colouring the floor is hues of red, gold, and sapphire, painting it in the city's past.

The building was annoyingly grand, and Evander always found it to be a labyrinth of sorts. Every hallway looked the same, with its polished floors, large pillars, endless rows of tapestries, and doors that led to offices, council rooms, archives, or simply nowhere of use. He moved through the corridor with the confidence of someone who had been lost here multiple times before.

Around him moved nobles and other official workers, their robes clean and finely tailored, boots polished, voices low but urgent as they discussed matters of trade, diplomacy, and war from behind well-practiced smiles. Many barely spared him a glance, too caught up in their own concerns. Evander, on the other hand, still had his sleeves rolled up and hands stained from tools rather than ink. The contrast was obvious.

He turned a corner, frowned, then backtracked. Another flight of stairs led him to a hallway that looked identical to the last three. He cursed under his breath.

Why couldn't Daren just be at the Crucible?

He moved through a now much emptier corridor. No one was in sight, just the soft echo of his own footsteps against the stone floor. Another wrong turn, clearly. He was about to turn back when his wandering was halted by a sharp, angry voice.

Evander froze. The voice was too loud, too furious for these halls. In times of war, tempers flared, things went wrong, but for a noble or official to let their anger ring out like this meant something was very wrong. It wasn’t his place to pry, but curiosity outweighed caution, and he stepped closer, ears straining.

“What do you mean they got away? After all, I paid for that bugbear?”

There was a pause, then a second voice. It was lower, nervous. “They had a sorcerer with them, sir. Illusion magic. Our men were tricked… they escaped.”

“I don’t want excuses.” The first voice was cold now, dangerous. “Did they take anything? Did they see anything?”

“I- I don’t know, sir. They fled, but they took a prisoner with them. Lucian scout we had held captive for interrogation.”

A hard thump; a fist hitting wood or stone. “Damn it. Do you realize how hard it was to find and harvest those stones? And now you let some fools stumble into our storage unit?”

The voice lowered, but the venom remained. “You’re lucky it was Lucians. If it had been Zadale’s men, or word of this reached House Velthorn, I'd have had your head cut off."

House Velthorn was the noble house of the current high councillor. If the man knew Evander was here, he’d likely have him killed without hesitation. Evander’s heart pounded at the thought. He took a cautious step back from the door.

"No one can know about this. Go back to the unit at Ironwood. Relocate everything. Do it now.”

“Yes, sir.”

What in the gods’ names was going on? His mind raced. Stones, storage units, bugbears. Whatever this was, it stank of treachery. He didn’t understand all of it, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to tell someone.

A sudden sound froze the breath in his lungs; the unmistakable creak of the door latch turning, footsteps approaching from the other side.

Panic surged through him. No time.

He spun on his heel and bolted down the corridor, boots thudding softly against the polished stone. He kept low, shoulders hunched, weaving between the pillars that lined the hall. Behind him, the door swung open.

“Who’s there?” came a sharp voice.

Evander didn’t look back. He rounded the nearest corner and kept running, heart hammering like a drum. He just prayed that whoever was back there didn't recognise him.