The grand hall opened before them in a sweep of polished obsidian and silver-lined steel. Column surfaces veined with faint Ryun currents that pulsed with slow rhythm, illuminating the vaulted ceiling high above. Banners from each of the ten fleets hung in perfect symmetry, though four alone were set behind the long council table—signaling which leaders had been chosen to represent them.

Eirian's stat-eye flickered to life, casting subtle overlays across her vision as she entered. All human or humanoid in form, each radiating their own brand of authority.

Civen sat among them with two guards at her flanks, her posture relaxed and her lips curved in that insufferable, smug smile. Eirian expected her to seize control of the room with sharp words, but for once she remained silent, almost amused, content to observe.

Caelus's gaze brushed hers briefly before he stepped forward. He positioned himself at the head of the chamber, letting the long table and the blue-lit walls frame him. His voice carried effortlessly across the room.

"Welcome. I'll assume you been chosen not only to speak for your fleets, but to decide how we move forward together. Since you know about us. Let us begin by sharing who you are. Names. Ranks. And what you stand for."

One by one, the leaders obliged. Eirian sat with an easy grace, her eyes sharp as she measured their tones, their stances, the flickers of pride and insecurity. She smiled faintly, watching her man guide the tempo of the room with practiced ease.

The four representatives rose in turn when Caelus motioned. Eirian's stat-eye flickered across each of them, numbers and traits hanging in faint glyphs over their shoulders.

Cadet Regulars. All four.

Levels between 350 and 400. Respectable—better than most of the fodder—but not the kind of overwhelming force she had hoped for. Watching Civen while also trying to be the meeting's edge against any sudden attack was going to be more taxing than she liked.

The Woman: A broad-shouldered matron with silver streaking her dark hair and a cloak clasped with a guild sigil of interwoven spears. When she spoke, her voice was steady but not boastful.

"I am Serana Vale, Warden of the Guild of Unbroken Leaves. I do not crave glory, only stability. I want this threat ended so that my grandchildren may live in peace. Nothing more."

Her calmness was a contrast to the war-banners draped behind her, and Eirian found herself respecting the bluntness of the sentiment.

Then a Barbaric Man: He had the look of a raider—braided beard, heavy furs, and a scar cutting across one cheek—but when he opened his mouth, his diction was refined, almost scholarly.

"Ragnart Holt. Once a breaker of shields, now a keeper of them. To stand among three legends is honor enough. But I would not waste your time. The Occulted Moon festers in our region. They've grown bold of late—helping the event move along.

Next to him a more stern looking man, rigid posture, clean-cut armor polished to mirror shine, his words clipped and military.

"Captain Dereth Kaneel. My men hold the eastern frontier. Our losses are… tolerable, but growing. If this council has strength, I'll lend mine."

His tone carried no warmth, only a soldier's report—yet behind it Eirian read discipline and the unspoken weight of responsibility.

Lastly, a young man.

The youngest of the representatives, dark eyes quick and restless. He wore the crest of a naval house across his chestplate.

"Jorin Tel. House Tel of Coies's third fleet commander. I am… less tested than my peers, but not unready. My oath is to serve."

His words wavered with inexperience, but his level still sat at 364—proof enough that he had seen more than his polished armor suggested.

When the introductions were complete, Caelus lifted his hand. A ripple of unseen power moved through the hall.

"Now," he said, "you will all have received a notification—whether or not you carry a system."

A subtle vibration tickled Eirian's palm. She lowered her eyes and saw the glowing message suspended there, written in runes that shifted between light and shadow.

————————————————————

Pact of Truth.

By accepting, you swear that all words and intent you speak within this hall shall be truthful. Anything less will result in soul wilting.

————————————————————

Without hesitation, Caelus pressed accept. Eirian followed, her smile widening as her own confirmation seal burned briefly against her skin before fading.

Around the table, the others accepted in turn. Some reluctantly, others with a shrug of inevitability. Civen's smirk only deepened before she too pressed the seal.

When the last sigil dimmed, Caelus's voice cut through the silence.

"Let's begin."

When Ragnar finished his report, Civen finally stirred. Her voice cut through the chamber, cool and sharp.

"The Occulted Moon will not be our problem. Their goddess thrives on disruption, yes—but that disruption will draw the ire of the other deities before long. They will tear each other apart while we gather strength. As for the Blood Prince's force…" she tilted her head, smile widening, "even allied with the Moon, they cannot hope to take on a coalition of this size."

There were nods around the table. Even Ragnar conceded with a grim incline of his head. To engage the Moon openly would be to fight in shadows against gods themselves.

Caelus straightened, reclaiming the thread.

"Then strategy remains. If the Occulted Moon is a background threat, and the Blood Prince lurks with them, we must plan around his movements. Lines of supply. Coordination between fleets. Decoys if necessary."

Dereth Kaneel leaned forward, eyes bright, cutting into the rhythm.

"And what of the civilians?"

A brief pause, then the question was pressed harder—how to move them, how to shield them from becoming pawns in divine games.

Caelus did not flinch. "It is not fair that they should die for this reckless game," he said. His gaze swept across the table, then softened only slightly when it rested on Eirian. "They deserve better than to be treated as collateral."

Eirian nodded, amplifying his words. "We are not outsiders playing with pieces. These are natives. Families. Grandparents, children, bloodlines stretching further than any of us. If we claim to fight for stability, then their safety must be part of that."

The hall fell quiet, tension rippling through banners and glowing Ryun veins in the walls. Even Civen—smug smile still fixed—chose not to laugh at the sentiment.

For now, no one argued.

Serana Vale, folded her arms across her chest, her aura dimming as she narrowed her eyes.

"Since we are currently bound by truth." She turned to Civen. "How are we meant to trust you, Civen? You've schemed your way through every hall I've ever heard your name in. Why should this be different?"

Civen only smiled, unfazed, her guards shifting behind her.

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"My being here, Serana, should be enough. I accepted the Pact of Truth same as you. What more proof is there than my own word, bound by law and intent?"

Dereth Kaneel, was not so easily dismissed. His voice came out with an edge.

"Words are one thing. What's your goal? Why stand with us at all?"

The younger man, Jorin Tel, nodded quickly.

"Yes… why would a Ranker, with all your power, even care to sit here with us? What do you gain?"

For the first time, the smile faltered. Civen let out a breath through her nose, her posture tilting—not defeated, but weary. Her eyes lingered on the banners high above, then returned to the table.

"You want honesty. Fine."

Her voice took on iron.

"I was meant to be one of the first Rankers ever appointed as an ambassador to AllFather Laos. Do you know what kind of honor that is? Ambassadorship is a privilege reserved for High Rankers, sometimes gods themselves. But I earned it. I bled for it. I carved away my own soul and gambled my family's lives for it."

Her gaze cut across them, sharp enough to silence even Ragnar's rumble.

"I took debts no sane person would take. Promised away inheritance lines. Locked myself into contracts that would have swallowed every last one of my kin if I failed. But I didn't fail. I had it. The appointment was mine."

Her lip curled, not in mockery, but in a deep and bitter ache.

"And then Vari decided she wanted her own agent in that chair. Her meddling spoiled it all. Her little pawn was appointed instead of me. I lost everything. My standing, my honor, my family. All stripped because a goddess simply felt like it."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the Ryun veins pulsing through the walls seemed to dim.

Civen leaned forward, her eyes blazing now, her voice edged with something rawer than spite.

"So yes. My goal is simple. I want Vari to feel even a fraction of what I feel every time I wake. To kill her Jujisn is the best way to carve that pain into her bones."

The table remained still. No one dared shift or speak.

Eirian's stat-eye flickered confirmation in the air: Truth.

She turned her head slightly, locking eyes with Caelus. His expression was composed, but she read the tension behind it.

They hadn't expected this.

"Yes," Civen said, voice flat as a blade. "I'm willing to do anything to achieve my goals. But make no mistake—I'm not some saint trying to cleanse my name. The path I walk requires kindness and mercy right now, so I will perform it. I will protect the civilians. I will feed them, guard them, and move them if needed."

Her eyes narrowed, the smile gone. "But when the time comes, I want to look at a Jujisn's corpse the same way Vari once smiled at me when she ruined my life."

A hush settled over the table. Eirian's stat-eye blinked a slow, clinical confirmation above Civen's head: Pact: True. There was no theatricality to it—just the honest, raw hunger that sat behind the Ranker's will.

Caelus unclenched his hands and let a thin, controlled breath out. He tapped a finger against the table, bringing them back to the operational thread. "This council's strength is twofold: we can hold ground, and we can deny the Blood Prince the momentum he needs. We won't hunt the Jujisn or sweep the Occulted Moon into the open. That's a trap."

Eirian leaned forward, voice crisp and businesslike. "Civilians come first. Evacuation corridors, neutral safe zones in the lower terraces, and mobile shields as cover for the convoys. If we show we're willing to protect the people, we rob our enemies of their favorite lever: terror."

Civen nodded once, slow and deliberate. "I agree on the corridors. I can lend a pair of heavy wards and two battlegroups to the northern route."

They discussed logistics—timings, signal protocols, which banners would escort which convoys—until Ragnar brought them to a thornier name. "And the Lands Herald."

The other three faces tightened. The Lands Herald, a disaster given form. That creature alone had done more damage than the Blood Prince himself.

"We bolster defenses around the Herald's known posts," Caelus said. "If they try to goad us into open war, we deflect and contain. We don't hand them the fight they want."

"That means more troops on the watchtowers and tighter seals on the escape routes," Dereth added. "It also means keeping the Herald under surveillance all the time. We can't afford to act rashly."

"Defense is our strongest offensive," Serana agreed quietly. "I can have my men be on watch. Spying and tracking are our specialty."

Civen's grin returned for a heartbeat, cold and small. "Excellent… so I'll have my faction for civilian protection and inner city security. We should divide everything up into sectors. Easier to manage and makes a harder shell to crack."

The discussion stretched for hours—tactical maps spread, Ryun threads annotated, messengers dispatched to relay orders. Little decisions—who commanded the convoy escorts, how the wards would be camouflaged, which part of the city got the first safe-zone designation—were hammered into the plan. Each time a concern rose, Eirian and Caelus smoothed it into the schedule. Civen chipped in where it served her ends; sometimes her suggestions were ruthless, sometimes pragmatically merciful. Always honest.

Caelus and Eirian began threading their plan into the commanders' orders directly—handing out precise watch rotations, assigning contact wards between units, and carving the city into sectors for civilian care. Eirian sketched movement lanes on the map with a finger; the commanders took notes, asked practical questions, gaining newly forged confidence.

When the final keystroke of agreement was made and the last sigil of acceptance faded from the air, something like relief moved through the hall. They shifted in their chairs; laughter was small, but real. Morale rose the way a tide will—slow at first, then undeniable. They weren't a paper coalition anymore. They were a functioning force with a plan and, crucially, a shared reason to act. For the first time since the end of the world was announced, a real chance to win felt possible.

After the meeting, Caelus asked the four fleet commanders to stay. Civen rose after a few moments, smoothing the front of her dress. Claiming she was tired, she bowed—the motion was just enough to be polite and nothing more—then fell in behind her two guards. She paused at the doorway, looking back at the clustered group around the table. For a moment the Ranker's face was unreadable. Then she stepped out, guards flanking, and the heavy doors sighed closed behind her.

Eirian watched her go, then turned to Caelus. "She means it," she said quietly. "That appetite doesn't go away."

Caelus's mouth was a thin line, but his eyes were steady. "Then we make sure she has reasons to keep her hands tied to us until the time comes."

They both let the plan settle between them, already several moves ahead—because winning the tournament, ending the event, and surviving what came next would require not just strength, but patience.

Civen had to admit—Calmbrand and the Blade of the Dawn impressed her. They moved with the steady confidence of those who had long since stopped doubting themselves, and the way they threaded plans into place gave her pause. It was logical—inescapable even—that the Jujisns would eventually come to them. Turning the city into a fortress was the only sensible move.

But what caught her attention more than their defenses was their ability to deceive.

She felt a presence…Dienari. Officially, he had left the council chamber with the others, departing without fanfare. In reality, he hadn't gone anywhere. The shadow lingered still, moving through the seams of light and air, untouchable by the truth-pact. Watching. Listening. Civen felt his eyes like a prickle at the back of her neck even as she strode down the corridor with her two guards in tow.

She kept her expression unreadable, her stride calm. She would play along. For now.

Her gaze flicked once over her shoulder at the faint shimmer she alone could sense—Dienari's presence dogging her envoy's steps. He would follow her all the way back to her quarters, just as he had followed every word and gesture she'd given during the meeting. They thought themselves clever. And perhaps they were.

Because the dome they were constructing—the great protective barrier that would shield civilians, armies, and fleets alike—was admirable. Strong. Resilient.

Civen's lips curved in a private smile as the doors to her chambers opened in front of her.

She waited until Dienari's presence thinned to a mere itch at the edge of her senses, then closed the door and let Keryna slide her aura into place. One quick gesture and the room's usual lattice of surveillance—went dark to everyone but them. Keryna's lips quirked. "Funny how much faith they put in a dome and a promise," she said, voice low and amused.

"To be fair," Civen replied, easing onto the chaise, "it's a solid plan. In normal circumstances it would work." She nodded toward AAA-Ka-Nier. The stitched thing uncoiled from its cloak like a satisfied spider and produced, with ceremonious fuss, a small glass jar. Water sloshed within it over a scatter of gleaming scales. Civen took it without ceremony, uncorked it, and drank.

The effect was ordinary-seeming for a moment—cool water, metallic tang—and then her face changed, as if a curtain had been pulled from a wall inside her head. Memories she'd tucked away slid back into place: the bargains she'd made, the names she'd traded, the faces she'd promised would be kept safe and the faces she'd promised would suffer. She smiled, private and thin. She'd "shed" that part of herself for the meeting—an old trick, kept behind closed doors. Being clueless had the same weight as being genuine under a Pact. People trusted what they could see. People trusted what they thought they understood. Caelus and Eirian, for all their caution, still hadn't twigged to the act. Let them stay convinced; it made their trap easier to set.

Keryna's chuckle died into a whisper as AAA-Ka-Nier chittered insistently, claws tapping the table. The creature's voice was a string of clicks that her two ears translated as sharp news. Civen's eyes went cold and bright. "Givena and Cale have eyes on the Blood Prince and the Occulted Moon," she murmured, parsing the information the fed to her. "They're separated."

Interesting and useful.

She set her jaw. "Accelerate the timeline," she told Keryna, and gestured to the Ryun thread AAA-Ka-Nier had already woven between them. The stitched thing obliged, its chittering converting into the precise knots and pulses of a Ryun message on a stitched rag that disappeared. Orders unfurled, her plan tightened in parallel.

The only real unknown was the Lands Herald, a force that might push her hands, when she would rather keep patient. That uncertainty pushed her teeth together for a heartbeat—but only a heartbeat. She'd proclaimed her truth in the hall; she'd bound herself with the Pact. Everything was still moving along just fine. "Fate seems to be on our side," she said to Keryna, cold amusement curling at the edge of her words. "We turn the city into a sanctuary first, then a tomb. If the Herald forces our hand, we move earlier. If not— we move as originally planned."

Keryna's eyes glittered in agreement. AAA-Ka-Nier twitched, pleased with its part. Outside the room, the city hummed under preparations it believed were for safety. Inside, Civen tasted something sweeter: the slow, patient hunger of a creature who had nothing left to lose and all the time she needed to take it back.

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