Father Corwin, guided by Edwin, entered the imposing Governor's house. They ascended to the highest room in the building, where Governor Guthries held his council.
In the room, Father Corwin was met by an impressive assembly of knights, including Martia, accompanied by Four others of similar renown.
Governor Guthries had been granted Four Sword Saints to command upon his appointment, all of whom had sworn unwavering loyalty to him. Each of them held the prestigious title of Sword Saint, a testament to their formidable combat prowess.
Recruiting such elite knights was no small feat, and after his appointment, the process of recruiting such elite warriors had proven to be a daunting challenge.
Despite his best efforts, Governor Guthries had initially struggled to amass this group of skilled knights.
The title of Sword Saint was not bestowed lightly, and those who held it were highly selective in their allegiances.
Many knights of lower calibre had sought to join him, hoping for a chance to serve under the governor's banner, but Governor Guthrie was not flexible in his thinking.
Over time, he had grown frustrated with his inability to recruit more Sword Saints and had shifted his focus to accepting knights of a lower rank, albeit reluctantly. These warriors had become his guards.
Among these knights, Martia stood out as a unique presence.
While the others were Sword Saints, she possessed an even greater strength, transcending the boundaries of a mere Sword Saint.
Martia was a Sequence 9 Warrior, with exceptional power and skill in combat. Her presence in the council room added an air of undeniable strength and authority.
Priest Corwin, after entering the governor's chamber and surveying the assembly of knights, approached the governor and his council with an air of gravitas.
The room fell silent as all eyes turned toward the priest, recognizing the importance of his presence.
With a voice that carried the weight of authority, Priest Corwin began to address the gathering. His words were measured and deliberate, each syllable resonating with a sense of purpose.
"Governor Guthries, esteemed members of the council, and honourable knights," he began, his voice carrying the weight of his words, "I have been made aware that legates were dispatched with demands, and they were met with swift rejection. Is this not a matter of pride?"
Governor Guthrie, though visibly perturbed by the tone of admonishment in Priest Corwin's words, understood the gravity of the situation. The council chamber remained tense, and the council members and knights exchanged uneasy glances.
"We have witnessed the return of these ships' small boats, demanding your surrender, Governor," Priest Corwin continued, his gaze unwavering. "Yet, your response, demanding a proper parley, speaks to your inflexibility."
Priest Corwin continued, his voice unwavering. "In matters of diplomacy and power, it is often the subtleties and nuances that define our course. Pride, while a virtue in many aspects of life, can sometimes cloud our judgment and hinder our ability to navigate treacherous waters."
The council members nodded in reluctant agreement, recognizing the wisdom in his words.
"Let us not forget," Priest Corwin continued, "that our Island and its people depend on us to make decisions that are not solely driven by pride but by a careful consideration of our Island's well-being and the delicate balance of power that surrounds us."
"In the coming hours, as the dawn approaches, we shall face the rising sun with unwavering resolve," Priest Corwin proclaimed. "It is imperative that we remain united in our purpose, and that the strength of our men, including the formidable Sword Saints, shall safeguard our interests."
Amidst the council chamber's contemplative silence, a voice emerged from Governor Guthries' advisors.
One of them, a staunch supporter of the governor's unwavering stance, spoke up with conviction.
"They do not negotiate in good faith," the advisor asserted, his tone firm. "These legates have shown no willingness to engage in dialogue. Their arrogance leaves us with little room for flexibility."
Other council members nodded in agreement, their expressions mirroring their loyalty to Governor Guthrie and their scepticism toward the envoys from the six ships.
Priest Corwin, ever the advocate for caution and diplomacy, acknowledged their concerns with a nod. "I understand the reservations and doubts, indeed, the legates may not treat us on equal footing. However, it is precisely because we are not on equal footing that we must tread carefully. We must not let our pride blind us to potential opportunities for understanding."
The governor's advisors exchanged sceptical glances, clearly torn between their loyalty to their leader and the wisdom of Priest Corwin's counsel.
"Let us remember," Priest Corwin continued, "that there may indeed be just cause for retribution against us individually. We have conspired against our lord, and in their eyes, they have grounds for our heads." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled council members.
"But let us not provide them with just cause for a war against the entire island. As guardians of our island, we must explore all avenues before making a final judgment."
His words hung in the air, a sobering reminder of the potential consequences of their actions.
Sobered by the weight of their deliberations and the wisdom of Priest Corwin's counsel, Governor Guthries instructed Martia to make another offer to the legates from the ships anchored off the coast.
Martia nodded in acknowledgement of the governor's command and departed.
With diplomacy set in motion, Priest Corwin seamlessly transitioned into planning for the possibility of combat. Plan B, as it were, was brought to the forefront of their deliberations.
The council chamber, which had previously been filled with the tension of uncertain diplomacy, now buzzed with discussions of strategy and defence.
Governor Guthries and his advisors, with the assistance of Priest Corwin, began crafting their contingency plans. His expertise in strategy and combat at sea proved invaluable as he offered insights and recommendations on how best to protect their town and its people should diplomacy fail to yield the desired outcome.
Priest Corwin, ever mindful of his responsibilities, understood that his presence was needed elsewhere.
While his expertise in strategy and combat had proven invaluable in the council's preparations for the possibility of conflict, he knew that he could not stay long.
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As Livius rowed towards the ships with Caeso aboard, the vigilant men on the ships stood watch, their eyes trained on the approaching boat.
Soon, a voice called out from one of the ships, demanding to know who approached.
Instead of Livius, it was Caeso who replied, his voice strained from his injuries. "I am Caeso Petronius Rufrius," he said.
The men on the ship recognized the name and their expressions changed to a mixture of relief and joy. "Caeso, how did you get out? Your master has been worried sick," one of them exclaimed.
In response to their welcoming words, Caeso cursed silently. His sword wound throbbed with pain, and he knew that climbing up the rope ladder would be excruciating.
With a pained expression, he conveyed his condition. "Throw a rope. You will need to pull me up; I am injured."
The men on the ship quickly understood the situation and threw down a sturdy rope, ready to assist Caeso in his ascent, aware of the pain he would endure to reunite with his master.
As Livius and Caeso successfully boarded the ship, the men exchanged quick and urgent words amongst themselves.
They knew the importance of Caeso.
"Quick, let the lord know! Inform him that the hostage has been recovered," one of them exclaimed, the urgency in his voice mirroring the gravity of the situation.
Their steps hastened as they moved to convey the news to their lord, ensuring that the message reached him without delay.
Slowly but surely, lanthorns and torches were being lit one by one aboard the ship that Livius and Caeso had boarded.
These actions spread like wildfire, first to the neighbouring ship and then to the next until a mesmerising dance of light and shadows enveloped all six ships in its radiant embrace.
The once dark and ominous presence of the ships had transformed into a lively and bustling spectacle, as the crew members' silhouettes danced in the flickering light.
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Beneath the ancient chapel of the Lord of Storms, in the Hold a cataclysmic conflagration unfurled its malevolent dance.
The flames, their tongues searing crimson, roared with an insatiable hunger.
They voraciously consumed all in their path, from the sturdy wooden tables to the once-stalwart chairs that now writhed in the relentless embrace of the inferno's fury.
The wooden tables, once sturdy and steadfast, became fuel for the voracious fire, their polished surfaces now reduced to smouldering embers. Splintered and consumed, they offered no resistance to the inferno's insatiable appetite.
The very air crackled with the intensity of the blaze, as though the very essence of the chapel itself had ignited.
The door to the armoury, once a sentinel guarding Priest Corwin's possessions, now bore the weight of the flames' wrath. Its iron hinges groaned in protest, gradually yielding to the relentless heat that sought to reduce them to molten tears.
The chapel, once a bastion of faith and solace, had been transformed into a crucible of despair.
Its sacred aura had been devoured by the relentless screams of the smallfolk, their frantic escape from impending doom erasing the tranquil atmosphere that once dwelled within.
The very foundations of the Island seemed to tremble as if the Lord of Storms himself had unleashed his wrath upon the chapel.
However, this seismic upheaval was not the result of divine fury but rather the frantic scramble of more than five hundred people attempting to escape the Geminating flames.
Gone were the hushed prayers and the solemn contemplation that once filled the chapel.
In their place was utter chaos, a stampede of panicked souls desperate to escape the inferno that now consumed the sacred space.
While most could not directly see the flames, the intense heat and the eerie mix of grey smoke and orange light within the chapel told them all they needed to know.
It was difficult to determine who had spotted the danger first, but in a matter of moments, everyone was running for their lives.
Some may not have known the precise reason for the urgency, but the instinctual drive to escape the impending disaster was a force that united them all.
The chapel, once a sanctuary, had become a scene of frenzied desperation.
In the chaos, some unfortunate souls stumbled and fell, their bodies becoming obstacles in the path of those desperately fleeing the flames.
In this heart-wrenching spectacle, the bonds of family and kinship were momentarily broken. Blinded by fear and driven by the instinct for survival, they could barely see and cared not to look at whom they stepped on.
In this desperate scramble, fathers trampled upon their daughters, and sons upon their mothers.
Amidst the smears of smoke, grime, and the painful cries of the injured, the full magnitude of the tragedy unfolded.
Broken bones and shattered hopes littered the chapel.