In the middle of the young candidate's speech for the position of dwarf lord, Vell stopped listening.
There were several contenders vying for the role. It was a very sought-after position, but only a few were seriously considered—Lunt Senior being one of them.
The candidate currently speaking was young, particularly for a dwarf. His polished words touched on common issues of economy and tradition, but to Vell, they rang hollow. The young man was from a wealthy family, his privilege evident in his demeanor and delivery.
Vell's gaze wandered from the speaker to the crowd filling the hall. The atmosphere was thick with tension, veiled by polite applause and murmured approval. Dwarves were a political species, despite their reputation for blunt honesty. Every nod, clap, and raised brow was a calculated maneuver—a silent signal of alliance or challenge. All of it felt disingenuous to him.
The young dwarf's voice carried on, buoyed by confidence rather than substance. "We must strengthen our economy, not just through tradition, but through innovation!" he proclaimed, earning scattered applause.
Vell arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. The speech was polished, undoubtedly the work of tutors and advisors. Yet the candidate's words lacked the depth of real experience, the kind forged through hardship. Vell doubted this dwarf had ever faced anything resembling true struggle.
It wasn't the wealth itself that irked him—it was the arrogance that came with it, the assumption that power could be inherited rather than earned.
The role he currently held, Vell surmised, was likely handed to him through nepotism. His handlers—probably an uncle or a family friend too old to gain their own audience—had likely pushed or gifted him into this opportunity. Some of them, Vell guessed, were of dubious reputation, while others were merely desperate to hold onto fading influence.
His eyes shifted to Lunt Senior, standing at the edge of the hall with his arms folded. The older dwarf was a study in contrast: weathered, seasoned, and silent. His expression was unreadable, yet his presence commanded respect.
The young candidate droned on, but Vell's thoughts drifted.
His fingers brushed the faint red writing etched into his palm. The spell was a lifeline, a connection to Sonder, and the reassurance it brought was fleeting but grounding.
His imagination, however, betrayed him.
He pictured the hall's grand doors crashing open with a thunderous boom, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls. A contingent of guards would pour in, grim-faced and armed to the teeth. Among them, magicians would follow, their hands crackling with barely-contained energy, ready to subdue him at a moment's notice.
At the front of the group would stand the captain, their voice cold and commanding:
"Vellichor, Dread Mage, Black-Stone, Red-Eyes—you are under arrest for crimes against the dwarven people and their council!"
Gasps would ripple through the crowd, whispers erupting like wildfire.
Vell imagined himself rising from his seat with deliberate calm, his expression neutral as if he had expected this all along. He would comply without resistance, his silence unsettling enough to keep the guards on edge.
The vision dissipated as quickly as it came. Vell blinked, forcing the thought away. He glanced back at the young candidate, whose words about reform sounded vague and impractical.
The doors didn't burst open. The guards didn't come. Nothing happened.
The only thing even remotely out of place was the empty seat on the Council of Dwarf Lords.
And only Vell knew why.