She could have been the one to rise as the Supreme Leader—Adira, a woman of unwavering kindness. She had been the voice of the unheard, the light in the darkest corners of despair. Her compassion was not weakness; it was a force that moved nations. Even before the elections, the people had spoken, their faith in her so absolute that her victory seemed inevitable.

"My grandfather ruled before me, and so did my father," Owen murmured, his voice laced with the weight of legacy. Power, in his bloodline, was not given—it was inherited. Yet, that night had shattered everything.

The streets, once alive with chants of hope, now lay in ruin. Bodies were strewn across the stone pathways, their lifeless forms bathed in the eerie glow of flickering streetlights. The air reeked of blood and smoke, the silence heavier than the screams that had preceded it.

And there, at the heart of the carnage, Adira stood still. Motionless. Unyielding.

Owen clenched his fists, his breath unsteady. "Anger," he whispered to himself, "is the deadliest weapon. And tonight, it has chosen its master."

The grand hall of the Supreme Court loomed with an oppressive silence, its marble pillars casting long shadows beneath the cold light of the chandeliers. Only the eleven leaders were permitted inside—figures of absolute authority, draped in ceremonial robes, their faces carved from stone.

At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform, sat the Chief Arbiter, an elder whose very presence commanded submission. His voice, deep and unwavering, carried across the chamber.

"Bring forth the accused."

The great iron doors groaned open, and through them, flanked by guards in obsidian armor, Adira was led in chains. The shackles around her wrists and ankles clinked softly with every step. Yet, despite her restraints, her posture remained unbroken. She did not bow her head. She did not tremble.

A herald, standing at the foot of the Arbiter's platform, cleared his throat before speaking.

"Presenting Adira of the Sixth Pillar, sworn protector of the Southern Dominion," he declared, his voice echoing across the vast chamber. "Charged with the unlawful assault upon the Tenth Pillar, an act of treason against the Council of Eleven."

A murmur rippled through the gathered leaders, though none spoke outright. The Arbiter, hands folded atop his staff, gazed down at her with a piercing scrutiny.

"You stand accused of an unforgivable crime," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "The attack on the Tenth Pillar was not only an act of war but a betrayal of the sacred balance we uphold. Speak, Adira. Do you deny these charges?"

All eyes fell upon her. The woman who could have been the Supreme Leader. The woman who had been declared victorious before the elections had even begun. And now, she stood before them, bound and accused.

Still, Adira did not lower her gaze. She looked up at the eleven who sat in judgment of her—her expression unreadable. And then, for the first time, she spoke.

"I do not deny my actions," she said. "But I will make you understand them."

And just like that, Adira was laid to sleep. Her body crumpled to the cold floor, her breath slow, her consciousness slipping beyond reach. The chamber remained silent as the guards lifted her motionless form, the weight of her downfall heavier than the chains that bound her.

The eleven leaders watched in stillness. No protests. No outcries. The decision had been made.

Days later, the grand hall stood filled once more, but this time, not for trials—only for a declaration.

Owen sat upon the throne, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. The banners of his house draped behind him, a legacy of power that now stretched from his grandfather, to his father, and finally, to him.

Leonidas stood at his side, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He had fought for his place in history, but in the end, Owen had been the one to rise.

The announcement echoed through the chamber.

"Owen, rightful heir of the seat, Supreme Leader of the Dominion."

A moment of silence followed. Then, a wave of cheers erupted, a forced chorus of acceptance.

Owen did not react. He simply sat, his fingers resting lightly on the armrest, his gaze distant.

The throne was his. But at what cost?

The gathering took place in a weatherproofed cabin nestled deep within a remote wooded area, precisely twenty-five miles from the main castle. The location had been carefully selected to ensure secrecy, shielded from prying eyes by towering evergreens and the constant murmur of rustling leaves. The members arrived discreetly at irregular intervals, their movements calculated and cautious. Each came from different pillars—representing various factions with their own interests—but their meeting had been quietly arranged.

Guards escorted each member to the entrance, allowing only those recognized by the secret passphrase to enter.

Inside, the cabin was lit by the dim glow of lanterns. The chairman sat at the head of a long wooden table, his presence commanding. "It is best we put this to a vote," he announced, his voice steady, though the weight of the moment was evident in his eyes. "Yes or no. Nothing more."

He pointed to each member in turn.

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

The vote continued swiftly around the table until only two remained. When called upon, one hesitated before speaking. "No."

The last glanced around the room, then shook their head. "No."

A silence followed, heavier than before. Eyes flickered with contemplation, calculation. The vote was cast. The purpose of their gathering had reached a turning point.