It was a deceptively calm afternoon for the Council of Bright Ones. They knew the gravity of the situation, but none of them wore their stress openly. Laughter and casual conversation filled the air as they made their way through the palace corridors. Some came armed with fresh ideas, others were still mulling over what they would present. They knew that once the heavy wooden doors of the Council Hall closed, the casualness would melt away, replaced by the weight of the choices before them.
As they entered the Council Hall, expecting a usual order and calmness, they were greeted by a chaotic scene. Books and papers lay scattered across every surface, diagrams and hastily scribbled calculations covered the board, and at the center of the storm stood Henry, furiously chalking the final lines of an equation on a blackboard nearly overflowing with numbers and sketches. The fire in his eyes was undiminished despite the dark bags beneath them, a clear testament to a sleepless night. Fredrick, meanwhile, was slumped over a table, snoring loudly, his face buried in a pool of his own drool.
"Henry! What on earth is all this?" one of the council members blurted out, eyes wide with confusion and disbelief.
"All of it!" Henry spun around, his face beaming with a manic grin that didn't quite suit his exhausted appearance. "Please, everyone, sit. We've found the perfect solution!"
The council members hesitated for a moment, exchanging glances, before shuffling to their seats, one by one. There was an odd energy in the room—a mix of curiosity, unease, and a faint trace of excitement.
"This," Henry gestured grandly towards the chalkboard, "is the future of warfare! May I present to you... the Propelled Projectile! The name was coined by our intelligent friend" He pointed dramatically at Fredrick, who mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and rolled over.
"The Propelled Projectile?" someone murmured in confusion.
Henry raised his hands, pacing in front of the board as if he were presenting the grandest of revelations. "Yes, yes! I know it sounds absurd at first, but let me explain! We all know the catapult. A tried-and-true weapon of war, yes? It's served us well for centuries."
Several military strategists in the room nodded, though wariness crept into their expressions. This was no ordinary council session.
"But," Henry's voice dropped, drawing them in, "the catapult, for all its usefulness, is flawed. Accuracy is inconsistent, reload times are long, and its range is... mediocre at best. What if, instead of using a cumbersome system of stored energy, we placed the projectile inside a fixed barrel, and propelled it using a controlled explosion from a specially concocted substance? Think of it—a simple metal ball, launched with terrifying precision, further and faster than any catapult could ever hope to achieve."
A ripple of awe passed through the room. Eyes darted from Henry to the board, then back to each other. Henry could see the dawning realization on their faces, the first flickers of understanding.
He continued, his energy seemingly endless despite his appearance. "The barrel remains stationary! You only need to reload the ball into it! No winding, no pulling back massive arms of wood—just set the projectile in place, and fire!"
A man near the back stood abruptly, unable to contain his excitement. "Continue! Please!"
Henry smiled, knowing he had them hooked. "Lord Percival," he called, addressing the kingdom's finest blacksmith, who sat wide-eyed in his seat. "We've done the calculations. The metal for the barrel must be thick, but not unmanageable. The length, the bore—we've considered every detail. And the best part?" He paused for effect. "This new invention will not be a drain on our resources. After just one month of hard work, we'll be able to produce nearly three hundred of these devices, along with thousands of projectiles—each weapon equipped with twenty shots."
The room fell deathly silent as Henry's words settled over them. Some stared at the diagrams, others at Henry himself, trying to grasp the enormity of what was being proposed. They weren't just talking about refining an old weapon—they were discussing something that could alter the very course of history.
Percival, the blacksmith, leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly. "Wheels... you said it could move?"
Henry nodded vigorously. "Yes! The barrel will be mounted on a wheeled frame, no bigger than the average man, so it can be moved across the battlefield with ease. We've thought of everything."
The council exchanged looks of awe, and for some, horror. What Henry and Fredrick had conceived wasn't just a new weapon; it was the birth of a new era—one where siege warfare would never be the same again.
"Unbelievable..." someone muttered under their breath, the weight of it all sinking in.
Lord Percival finally spoke, his voice shaking. "And you're sure it will work?"
Henry met his gaze, unblinking. "We're sure. The calculations are solid, the design flawless. All we need now... is your trust."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with anticipation, uncertainty, and a growing sense of unease. Then, slowly, the murmurs began to rise. First a whisper, then louder—some voices in support, others in quiet fear of what they had just witnessed.
It was nearly a matter of getting everyone to grasp the full scope of the invention. As the Council worked through the nuances of the new weapon, problems arose—each one swiftly met with a solution. The blacksmiths would begin forging the weapon, while alchemists and chemists labored over the mysterious black powder Henry had discovered, the key to propelling the deadly projectiles. Strategists, previously bound to centuries-old tactics of catapults and trebuchets, tore up their old playbooks, excitedly crafting new approaches. They would have to build from the ground up, for this was a weapon that demanded an entirely different art of war.
Soon, the Council Hall emptied, each member hurrying off to fulfill their roles. The once lively room now echoed in silence, save for two figures who remained behind—Henry, drained from the day's exertion, and Fredrick, who had finally stirred from his slumber. Fredrick rubbed his eyes, still half asleep, though he had caught fragments of the meeting while drifting in and out of consciousness.
Henry slumped into a chair, the weight of what had just transpired settling on him like a heavy cloak. He let out a long sigh, staring at the chalkboard still filled with their plans.
Fredrick, now more awake, yawned and stretched before speaking, "Why did you act so... different? The council knows you, Henry. That over-the-top enthusiasm—it's not you. I think you threw half of them off with that performance."
Henry's tired eyes lingered on the chalkboard before he cracked his neck and sank further into his chair. "You're right. But sometimes, you have to put on a mask. Enthusiasm makes the prospect of destruction a little more... palatable." He let out another sigh. "If I'd approached it with the seriousness it deserved, I don't think I would have gotten the same reaction. They needed to believe in it. They needed to feel excited, not scared."
Fredrick nodded slowly, understanding dawning on him. "So it was all an act. You played them just to get them to accept it faster."
Henry shrugged. "War makes monsters of us all. I didn't enjoy it, if that's what you're asking. This thing—this weapon—it's a nightmare. But we need it. And that's what terrifies me. I did what was necessary."
Fredrick, still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, leaned back in his chair. "True enough. I know you only went through with this because of the pressure. But if the Council found out you've been holding back an even greater invention, well... that would be the end of you."
Henry's expression darkened. He said nothing for a moment, letting the weight of Fredrick's words hang in the air. His fingers drummed against the armrest.
"You think I don't know that?" he finally muttered. "This Propelled Projectile is dangerous enough as it is. The other invention... it's too much. If it ever came to light, it wouldn't just change war—it would change everything. I'm not ready to be responsible for that. No one should be."
"But someone will eventually try to shrink it down," Fredrick added.
Henry rubbed his temples, exhausted. "I know. It's inevitable. But not during this war, not yet. For now, what I've given them is enough. The world doesn't need more destruction than that."
Fredrick let out a small chuckle. "So that's why you were so enthusiastic. You used your reputation as the 'brightest mind' to sell the idea—so no one would question it."
Henry shot him a look, his eyes tired but sharp. "Does that bother you?"
Fredrick shook his head. "Not at all. In fact, I would've done the same thing. You played it smart. I was just curious how far you'd go. After all, great minds think alike."
Henry allowed himself a small, weary smile. "They do indeed."
The room fell into silence again, the quiet returning in full. Both men sat, the weight of their decisions hanging between them, unspoken but understood. The war loomed, and with it, the consequences of their brilliance.
Fregran and his companions settled into the grand receiving hall, the atmosphere thick with the tension of unspoken questions. The room itself was a marvel—high ceilings, walls adorned with tapestries, and furniture that spoke to the wealth and tradition of the Limerick estate. Noble Victorian Gustav Limerick of West Ridge, fresh from dining with his family, entered the room. Though he'd intended to offer them a hearty supper, his mind was too occupied with the urgency of the situation.
He gestured for them to sit, taking a seat opposite them across a polished table, which held a kettle and an array of delicate teacups. A maid approached, her smile warm and practiced. "Tea?" she offered, her voice soft.
"No, thank you," most of them replied in low tones, each preoccupied.
Fregran, Estelar, and Buluni shared one couch, while Drut, Mina, and Ameria took the other. Okadio, mindful of his large frame and the fragile elegance of the furniture, chose to stand by the door, his arms crossed as he surveyed the room.
Victorian cleared his throat, his voice resonating in the quiet. "My deepest apologies for the abruptness of the situation. I am Noble Victorian Gustav Limerick of West Ridge. At present, His Majesty is not within the kingdom. In his absence, it falls upon us, the upper nobility, to manage pressing affairs. For today, I am here to address you all."
A flicker of confusion swept through the group; none of them fully understood why they'd been received with such formality.
"You're all likely wondering about the need for this formality," Victorian continued, his gaze steady. "Where to begin… Several months ago, our kingdom of Leotus summoned adventurers, parties, and mercenary groups from across the realms for a critical undertaking." He paused, taking a measured sip of tea, letting the gravity of his words settle. "Belandra—the second month of the coming year—is when we had planned to gather those willing for this task. They will be generously rewarded for their service, both upon joining and once their mission is complete. And the mission is... to go to war with the Elves of Minrow."
A ripple of unease passed through the group, sharpest among Estelar and Ameria, both of whom were of elven descent. Estelar's face grew guarded, while Ameria visibly tensed, her fingers tightening on her lap.
Victorian continued, unperturbed. "We anticipated that some adventurers might be of elven origin. However, once they hear of the reasons behind this call to arms, we believe they may see it as a necessary course of action." He set down his teacup with a soft clink against the delicate saucer, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
Estelar took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He would hear Victorian's reasoning, but his face betrayed his discomfort. Ameria glanced away, struggling with the thought of a war that might pit her against her own kind.
"For over a year now," Victorian began, his tone grave, "innocent people—farmers, travelers, merchants—have vanished. The Lyon Passage, once a vital route, has become a pathway of no return. Those that dare to journey through it disappear without a trace. Armies, peace envoys, whole caravans... none have returned. Only the fifteen souls you rescued have survived."
He rose from his seat and moved to a window, his gaze distant, hands clasped behind his back. "Efforts to warn against travel through the Lyon Passed have been made, but it seems that these people were taken from their very homes. Thousands of lives have been lost already. And I doubt it's to hold them as prisoners; no kingdom, including the elves, could sustain such a number without stretching their resources thin. The purpose of these abductions remains a mystery, but whatever it is... it is sinister beyond measure."
A heavy silence settled over the room, pressing down on every breath. Ameria and Estelar's expressions shifted from subtle disapproval to stunned disbelief. Both struggled to comprehend the accusations, feeling the weight of their improbability—yet, the nobles' hollow, unblinking eyes told a different story. Eyes haunted and devoid of warmth, like those of people who had lost so much that even grief had become a distant memory, swallowed by sleepless nights and unyielding duty.
Fregran's gaze moved over his companions, gauging their reactions. He understood the path that lay before them, and though human himself, his allegiance wasn't to the kingdom of Leotus but to the cause of stopping these horrors. He was ready to help, yet he knew he couldn't make this decision alone—this choice had to come from each of them.
Breaking the silence, Buluni uncrossed his arms, his eyes still closed as he spoke. "I'll be the first to say it... I'm in. Though dark elves have little fondness for elves, that's not what guides my hand here." His voice was steady, resolute.
Estelar looked at the floor, visibly wrestling with the implications. At last, he spoke, his voice carrying both sadness and conviction. "As difficult as it is to believe that my people would commit such acts, I cannot ignore the suffering. If innocent lives are at stake, then I have no choice." His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded.
One by one, the others gave silent nods of agreement, each gesture a mark of their resolve. Fregran allowed himself a faint smile, feeling a surge of solidarity. "Then it's settled. We may be only a small part of this war, but we'll do whatever we can to be of service."
Victorian's rigid posture softened as he turned to face them fully, a grateful smile touching his lips. "You are, so far, the only adventuring party to accept the task. But be forewarned—the timing has shifted. We may no longer wait until next year. The call to arms could come in mere months... perhaps even as soon as one."