Forum Thread

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In the aftermath of the devastating War of the Northern Invaders, the land of Aeloria was left scarred and mournful. The loss of life had been astronomical, and the wounds of the conflict ran deep. The Council of Magic, a powerful governing body overseeing magical matters in Aeloria, had enacted a draft of healers during the war to tend to the wounded. However, this well-intentioned move resulted in the tragic deaths of numerous defenseless citizens who possessed healing magic but were ill-prepared for the brutality of battle.

Amidst the turmoil, a mysterious figure known only as an Aelorian elf emerged from the shadows. Whispers spread of an Aelorian elf who had defied the orders of the Council of Magic and single-handedly assassinated the Northern King, Druin, bringing an end to the war. The people rejoiced at the news, seeing it as a glimmer of hope and justice after the long and brutal conflict. However, the Council of Magic, which had been desperate for peace and stability, was furious at this unauthorized act. They saw it as a disruption of their control over magical matters and an affront to their authority.

Meanwhile, avian prejudice was at an all-time high. The avians, who had fought within the ranks of the Northern Invaders, were met with suspicion and distrust. Despite the existence of Aelorian avian companies that had fought valiantly for the realm, their loyalty was questioned. The avian communities were marginalized, facing discrimination and hostility from those who saw them as traitors due to the actions of a few.

Capital punishment for army members suspected of even the slightest hint of betrayal became commonplace. The Council of Magic, in their pursuit of maintaining order and unity, deemed those who they believed had strayed from loyalty as a threat to the very fabric of Aeloria's society. Fear spread among the military ranks, as soldiers feared that any misstep or perceived disloyalty could lead to their execution.

In the midst of these turbulent times, a war hero named Captain Serafina Magisteria emerged as a symbol of hope and strength. She had distinguished herself on the battlefield during the war, leading her troops to victory against the Northern Invaders. Her unwavering dedication to protecting Aeloria and her strategic brilliance earned her respect and admiration from her fellow soldiers.

As a result of her heroic actions, Captain Serafina Magisteria was promoted to the rank of Guild Bearer, just one step below Guild Master within the hierarchy of the Council of Magic. Her ascent was both a recognition of her capabilities and a nod to the need for unity and leadership in such tumultuous times.

This moment in history marked a turning point in Aeloria's narrative, as it laid the foundation for the conflicts, tensions, and intrigue that would eventually give rise to the emergence of the Cult of the Black Sun, an organization with the potential to shape the destiny of the land in unforeseen ways.

In the vast and unforgiving desert, a new movement began to take shape, a whisper of change that would soon be known as the Cult of the Black Sun. Born out of a longing for equality and unity, the early days of the cult were marked by a message of hope and acceptance. The cult's charismatic leader, a figure known only as the Oracle of Shadows, preached under the scorching sun, promising a world where all individuals, regardless of their background, would stand as equals under the Black Sun.

The desert winds carried tales of this new movement, and people from all walks of life were drawn to its message of equality and unity. Refugees, outcasts, and those who had been disenfranchised by the rigid social structures of Aeloria found solace within the cult's ranks. The Oracle's words resonated deeply, and hope began to blossom in the hearts of those who had felt marginalized for so long.

At its inception, the Cult of the Black Sun seemed welcoming and inclusive. Members came together as a community, bound by their shared desire for a better world. They shared stories, resources, and knowledge, offering each other the support that they had lacked elsewhere. In this early phase, there were no violent rituals, blood sacrifices, or renegade murders. Instead, the focus was on building connections and fostering a sense of belonging.

However, even in these hopeful beginnings, there were subtle warning signs for those who chose to see them. The Oracle's teachings were shrouded in mystery, and followers were encouraged to blindly trust in their wisdom without question. The leadership structure was tightly controlled, and dissent was met with swift punishment. Beneath the surface, seeds of fanaticism and blind devotion were taking root, even if they were not yet fully apparent.

As the cult grew in numbers and influence, the Oracle of Shadows became more enigmatic, cloaked in an aura of power and authority. Whispers of secret gatherings and cryptic rituals began to spread, fueling curiosity and concern among those who had joined with the purest intentions.

The Cult of the Black Sun's early stages were a time of complex emotions. People were drawn to the movement's promise of equality and unity, yet some felt a nagging unease as they witnessed the gradual changes in its dynamics. The cult's transformation from a beacon of hope into something darker would later reveal itself as members found themselves entangled in a web of secrecy, manipulation, and ultimately, violence.

These early days of the cult, while characterized by a genuine desire for positive change, held the seeds of what would ultimately become a force of destruction and chaos. It serves as a reminder that even the noblest intentions can be twisted by those who seek power and control, and that the journey from hope to despair can be a treacherous path indeed.

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CH. 1 Child of the Desert

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silver-wood | the nouveau table
A loud rattling sound to his left snapped Lysander out of his daze. Five seconds of brief confusion at the origin of such a disruptive sound yielded the answer: the pot at his cooking station. Giant bubbles were popping above the surface, accompanied by a thick foam layer. Cursing under his breath in at least three different languages, the avian yanked the pot off the stovetop and turned the heat down. The lid rattled dangerously with his abrupt motions, and some of the soup spilled onto his sleeves and arms. Burning pain erupted in his arms, but he stifled his cries to a low hiss. Slamming the pot down none-too-gently onto the table, Lysander put his hands on the lid and tried to force his frazzled nerves into stillness. He slowed his breathing, allowing his heart rate to settle. Moments later, he felt a telltale chill ripple from his fingers. Ice, to bind the agitation of fire and sing it to sleep. Once he was confident that the pot was no longer boiling, he ripped the lid off to see the damage. Vegetables cooked for too long turned soft and dissolved in the soup, while meat dried up and shriveled under the assault of the intense heat. Of course, the stillness of his hands was only temporary. Outside the frenzied havoc of the kitchen, there were customers to wait on and dishes to serve. There was no respite and no rest. The kitchen was blazing hot and foggy with steam, not to mention the constant risk of setting his feathers on fire every time he got near the stove. No sooner had one dish been retrieved than five new orders poured in.

Anyone with his sense of mind should’ve resented being in such a chaotic and disorderly environment. It was not one of the avian’s strengths to multitask. But in the rhythm of his work, Lysander found a strange absence from his worries, his thoughts. Counterintuitively, the work became its own distraction, funneling his attention into the focus of a lens instead of letting it wander free.

He cast a quick glance around, deliberating avoiding eye contact. But for once, he was not met with gazes poisoned by scrutiny or prejudice. Everyone was busy with their dishes or chatting with someone else to notice his fluttering anxiety. No cruel reprimand came. Satisfied, Lysander busied himself with plating, throwing into four bowls a ladle-and-a-half of fluffy rice and a generous helping of curry. He tried not to grimace at the sight of the mango fruit, stomach twisting. Outside of Black Sun territory, he was beginning to see that mango vendors were, in fact, increasingly commonplace. The fruit was not as taboo as the cult made it to be. However, his old reflexes remained ingrained. Too many nights to count, his stomach yielded its contents to the fruit’s sinful temptation. Setting the bowls aside, Lysander was just moving to retrieve a tray when the bell rang outside.

“Lys, get your ass out here, pronto! Leave whatever you’re cooking!” Tibon barked from outside the main cooking area. “Guild’s sent a letter right for you!”

The guild. Or more specifically, the ruling council of Aeloria. Dread slithered down his back. They couldn’t know what happened last time. I didn’t leave any trace - I couldn’t have. But how do they know?

In his haste to exit the kitchen, Lysander nearly tripped over the step and reflexes alone prevented him from stumbling into Tibon. He loitered at the entrance, shifting from foot to foot like a scolded child. Furrows edged the younger elf’s youthful face and his arms were rigid with tension. A single snow-white envelope was clutched in a grip so tight it creased the paper. Forcing down his nerves, Lysander extended his hand, reaching for the mail.“May I see it?” After a few moments hesitation, the elf dropped it into his grip and backed away two paces, as if expecting the letter to morph into some raging flesh-eating beast. The avian took a moment to examine the carmine-red seal before tearing the letter open with a smooth flourish of talons.

One look at the parchment script - the first two lines at least - and his stomach dropped.

xxxxx𝐿𝑦𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑉𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑣𝑎,

𝐸𝑛𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎. 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠. 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑦. 𝐼𝑛 𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝐺𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑆𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑀𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑎. 𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟. 𝐴𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑦.

xxxxxxxxxx𝑅𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx- 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑪𝑰𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑴𝑨𝑮𝑰𝑪

What a welcome surprise.

A growl trilled low in his throat before morphing into a cynical laugh. They actually had the bloody dignity to send a letter this time. Lysander felt his talons tighten upon the parchment, threatening to rip it apart at the slightest gesture. One glance at the younger elf’s stiffened form indicated that this was not the reaction he was expecting. He couldn't blame his friend's wariness; guild matters, political affairs, such things were not made for the descendants of folk hated for their very existence. With the events of the Northern War leaving lasting effects on the Aelorian people, their allegiances would not be easily forgotten. Where fear once set in claws, hatred and resentment oozed like blood to poison the very atmosphere where he lived. It made Tibon's mother's generosity all the more precarious. As his previous employer put it: anybody could take risks for an avian, but not when the benefits were outweighed by costs. With business already unpredictable... This could be his last day at the restaurant.

The same thought had clearly occurred to Tibon. "'S it bad?" He asked hesitantly.

Lysander sighed heavily. He put the letter back in the envelope. "Not terrible." He lied stonily. Anger threatened to overwhelm him — anger that once again for factors outside of his control, his right, his chance at a normal life was taken from him. Lysander took a deep breathe. "Tell the others that I've gone to deliver food for a customer in person. Don't tell her about the letter. I might be away for several hours, but I may be back by tonight." He wouldn't. "Have Claudia —" one of the younger elf chefs at the establishment — "Carry on with my dishes. The curry should be bout ready now. I've plated already. Just get it on a tray."

Not waiting to see if his temper could hold out another minute, Lysander stalked towards his quarters the next door over, seething all the while

no i wasn't up at 2 am writing what do you mean?

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Seventh day of Breezemist, 1141 - The Tower of Arcana, Solarion
Serafina Magesteria, Guild Master.

In the grand halls of the Tower of Arcana, Guildmaster Serafina Magisteria paced the length of her lavishly appointed office. The air was charged with anticipation, the silence broken only by the distant murmurings of scholars and mages echoing through the corridors. She adjusted the deep blue cloak that flowed over her guild robes, a symbol of her position as one of the three guild bearers and now the Guildmaster.

Serafina's heart weighed heavy with a mix of emotions, apprehension and curiosity swirling within her. Today marked a pivotal moment as she prepared to attend a council hearing, a matter that had already stirred whispers and speculation among the guild members. The subject at hand was Lysander Voronova, an Avian rumored to have ties with the enigmatic and shadowy Cult of the Black Sun. The anti-Avian sentiment still ran deep, ten years after the Northern War, and Serafina knew well the complexities that sentiment brought to the table.

As she stepped away from her desk, her gaze fell upon a framed portrait of her younger self and her former companions. Memories of battles fought and alliances forged lingered in her mind. Tengan (dead), Cormoran (missing and presumed dead), Ralsei (dead), Cartwright, Elise, a younger (and wholer) Franz... Serafina's thoughts, however, were drawn back to the present as she walked towards the door, her steps echoing through the room.

Descending through the Tower of Arcana's elegant spiraled staircases, Serafina's mind raced. She held no bias against Avians, or any race for that matter, understanding the importance of unity in a realm as diverse as Aeloria. Her own journey had shown her the strength that came from embracing differences.

The central courtroom, located within the heart of the Tower, was a place of somber elegance. Tall windows allowed sunlight to filter through, casting soft beams that danced upon the polished stone floors. Serafina took her place at the table set for the guild representatives, the fifty council members already seated on the other side. She studied their expressions, knowing the power they held and the struggles she faced as their equal.

Bailiffs stood by the door. So it would be this kind of trial. The council members engaged in low murmurs, the atmosphere tense with anticipation. To make matters worse, the High Inquisitor, Thalos Meridian, looked gleeful. That was never a good sign. Serafina kept her composure, her blue eyes thoughtful as she awaited the start of the hearing. Inwardly, she grappled with her conflicting emotions - her fear and hatred for the Council, her determination to uphold her ideals, and her apprehension about what this hearing might devolve into.

---

Seventh day of Breezemist, 1141 - The TOwer of Arcana, Solarion
Lord Thalos Meridian, Councillor and High Inquistor.

As the council members settled into their designated places, Lord Thalos Meridian took his position with an air of undeniable authority. His presence, marked by the severe lines of his attire and the calculated way he held himself, sent a shiver through the room. He may have been small in stature (tall for a dwarf, but of course that meant nothing), There was something about him that spoke of power, a power that lay not only in his position as Councillor and High Inquisitor, but in the sheer intensity of his gaze.

A knowing smile curled upon his lips, the curve hinting at a sinister satisfaction that danced beneath his surface. Thalos Meridian was a man of unwavering conviction, driven by a belief in the absolute righteousness of his cause. His piercing eyes, so brown they were almost black, scanned the room with a fervent energy that bordered on excitement.

With a barely contained eagerness, Thalos Meridian's fingers tapped rhythmically upon the armrest of his chair, betraying his anticipation for what was to come. The tension in the air was palpable, and to him, it was as sweet as the promise of victory. He held the threads of control, and the prospect of unraveling secrets and extracting confessions was a power that coursed through his veins.

Though he remained composed, there was a dark fire that burned behind his eyes, a fervor that hinted at the depths of his determination. Thalos Meridian reveled in his position as High Inquisitor, relished the authority it granted him to seek out the truth, to expose lies, and to dispense his own brutal form of justice.

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Twelth day of Starfrost, 1131 - Unknown
Unknown, Ten Years Earlier.

In the depths of a damp and gloomy cell, the man sat in silence, his gaze fixed upon the cold stone walls that surrounded him. The air was heavy with a palpable tension, an unspoken weight that hung in the dimness. Shadows danced across his angular features, casting his expression in an eerie blend of light and darkness.

The prisoner's jaw was set in a hard line, his features etched with an unmistakable anger that simmered just beneath the surface. There was no room for regret in his heart, only a fiery resentment that fueled his thoughts and stoked the flames of his determination. He had been thrust into this grim predicament by forces beyond his control, and he refused to bow to the whims of those who sought to break him.

The man's hands, calloused from battles fought and choices made, clenched into tight fists at his sides. His muscles tensed with a pent-up energy that yearned for release, a yearning that mirrored the storm raging within him. He had seen the injustice that permeated the world, had felt the weight of betrayal and sacrifice, and now, he found himself trapped within a cell, a mere pawn in the grand game of those in power.

As he stared into the abyss of his thoughts, the prisoner's eyes blazed with a ferocity that defied the darkness that surrounded him. He had fought, bled, and sacrificed for a cause he believed in, only to be cast aside and branded a traitor by those who sought to maintain their control. His anger was a reminder of his defiance, a testament to the strength of his spirit that refused to be broken.

In the depths of that dismal cell, the man's heartbeat echoed with a rhythm of defiance, a heartbeat that thrummed with a relentless determination to stand firm against the forces that sought to condemn him. His thoughts were a whirlwind of memories, battles, and allegiances forged, all coalescing into a singular truth - he would not yield.

And so, as the hours dragged on, the prisoner remained resolute. The cold and dampness of the cell could not extinguish the fire that burned within him, nor could the weight of impending trial quell his unwavering anger. He was the embodiment of rebellion, a man who refused to bow to fate, and as he awaited the verdict that would seal his fate, his spirit remained unbroken, his anger a beacon of defiance that shone through the darkness.

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Seventh day of Breezemist, 1141 - Somewhere in the Singing Sands
The Oracle

Beneath the scorching sun of the Singing Sands, The Oracle stood upon a dune, his gaze fixed upon the horizon where the three suns blazed in the sky. The wind whispered secrets in his ears, and the shifting sands seemed to echo his thoughts as he communed with the very essence of the Black Sun itself. The Black sun was manifested itself as a cruel war god, a deity that thrived on chaos, destruction, and the fervent devotion of its followers.

In the depths of his mind, The Oracle felt the presence of the Black Sun, an all-consuming force that pulsed with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. It was a power that transcended mortal understanding, an entity born of darkness and chaos that whispered promises of power, supremacy, and ultimate control. The Oracle's eyes, a red of fire and death, gleamed with a fanatical light as he basked in the presence of the deity that fueled his mania.

As the wind whipped through his hair and the sands danced at his feet, The Oracle's mind soared to heights of ecstasy. He saw visions of a world consumed by chaos, of cities burning and civilizations crumbling, all under the malevolent gaze of the Black Sun. His fervent mania was a beacon of devotion, a fire that burned brighter with each whispered promise of the deity's favor.

As the suns continued their eternal dance in the sky, The Oracle's connection to the Black Sun remained unbroken. He was a vessel of darkness, a herald of chaos, and a disciple of the deity that promised him power beyond imagination. His triumphant smile spoke of a conviction that knew no bounds, a conviction that would drive him to lead the Cult of the Black Sun to heights of infamy and domination. And in that moment, as he stood upon the dune, bathed in the fiery light of the suns, The Oracle was consumed by a fervent mania that would shape the destiny of Aeloria itself.

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Practically ripping the door to his quarters off its hinges, Lysander stormed into the minimalistic area he was allowed. Tibon's mother had provided him with room and board in exchange for his service. It was more than many avians could ask for from their employers. Likely, her experience as a mother pained her to see another go without a roof over their head. Perhaps he would get her something if he was granted the chance to return here. Though, he thought bitterly, he was rarely ever so fortunate. He was a refugee, a runaway fleeing the endless onslaught of hateful whispers and stares, rumors and whispers. No matter how many hopeful gazes were leveled in his direction, he would never allow himself to grow close to an employer or his coworkers. All the better to leave quietly when no one suspected and no one had a chance to point a finger in his direction. Even if elves, in general, were kept in reasonably good standing, the council had too much power to be trusted with dealing with this matter lightly.

Packing was a brief affair. Years of changing destinations without end had taught the avian to pack light. He carried few items of sentiment, only keeping that of necessity. Clothes and bedding, sundry household items, some food, important files of identification, and a suitcase for carrying luggage. Such austerity could be emotionally taxing, but it spoke volumes regarding convenience. Lysander kept his movements fluid and organized to hide the budding ache in his chest. But why? Indeed, this bohemian lifestyle was nothing new to him at this point. Getting sentimental was fighting against factors kept out of his control. For one reason or another, the working life would never be stable or settled, and thus, neither would he. Still, he would miss Tibon's kindness and the gentle gaze of his mother watching her son grow up. The innocence of the elven boy was a fleeting and fragile beauty, like morning dew or the ripe sweetness of fruits before they succumbed to rot. An old aphorism from his earlier teachings floated into his mind about how only faith in the sunshine's return could last through the night. It would be twilight now, then. Golden hour.

Despite his earlier fury, Lysander was in no real hurry to leave. He hovered uncertainly on the cusp of the doorway, neither moving in nor out. Golden eyes captured every speck. Between the gentle sway of gossamer, sunlight illuminated the swell and ebb of dust as it rose and settled on the wood. The light pooled over every scratch on the floor until it shyly reached for his hand. Clenching his hand, he let it grasp at him like a child, begging for him not to leave. Lysander let it. He would probably never remember this place, and his forgetfulness bred regret. But a spoonful of sugar would help the medicine go down. Silently indulging himself one more minute, he left the shimmering dust behind.

Keeping his pace brisk but unhurried to the stray passerby, Lysander exited the plaza. The ache dogged him with each step, but he leaned into the throb, knowing it would fade in time. It was a bit late for the growing pains. He felt the wind tease the stubborn set at his jaw with stray fingers, calling him to the sky. However ironic it sounded, Lysander was less familiar with the skies of Silverwood than the ground. Faintly, he remembered a name called the Silver Path - the stretch that separated rain-draped glades and silken boughs from the hallowed capital's golden touch. A city of splendor, yes, but also with many jagged edges and gold that lacked the sun's gentle glow.

Someone called to him in low but stern tones. It took two tries before he recognized he was being addressed. Even from a distance, Lysander's eyes danced over the navy hues and velvet dressing of guild robes. It was unmistakably regal, lending a certain dignity to its dresser. The avian stiffened warily as he eyed them, wondering how hard they would push him if he refused. The strangers before him were wary themselves, but just beneath lingered a ponderous hostility. They asked if he had the letter. I do. There were only three elves and one driver. He could've just flown away, but he didn't. Lysander's eyes shuttered into brooding slits, and he shook his head at the proffered hand. "Just put my stuff in the trunk.." He muttered.

The doors slammed shut, trapping him in shadow.

✦•······················•◯•······················•✦
Of all things to be first observed, the Council Halls were unmistakably solemn and ancient. Carved of a firm and unyielding stone, no sunlight could soften the furrows and cracks that ran down its side. Only a master's craftsmanship kept the walls from becoming too severe. Gold ran up gilded arches and ivory pillars, beaming proudly in the pre-noon light that cascaded amply from open windows. There was surgical cleanliness to the marbled stone with no roughness or sun-showered dust. Looking up at the architecture now, Lysander couldn't help but wonder if the inspiration behind these halls had been a palace, a cathedral, or a mix of both. Precise and pure, but cold all the same.

Few lingered long enough to gawk at him. Many coughed and looked away, pretending to be occupied with the marble walls or their tasks. Heels slammed against the floor, and papers rustled. Still, his keen ears drew the whispers to his ears and along his spine like cobwebs. Lysander bound his arms tighter together, fighting against a swell of self-conscious nervousness. He marched with stiff legs and an expression of cold restraint. This was the same scrutiny he'd endured all his life, only with more civilized trappings. Different people, same ideologies. I thought I had escaped it. But that was how the law in Aeloria worked. It was the whispering scholars, the escort, removed and curt: all fair but unempathetic and professionally distant.

An electric shiver surged from head to wingtip as the doors creaked open, bidding him enter. The light was blinding. He stepped into a flood of silent memories. It was the same as giving a confession all those years ago. High-sloped windows yielded a shower of golden light to bathe the council members above him, illuminating their faraway faces and the stiffness of their bodies. They were tense, and rightly so, for a stranger stood before them, known only in rumor. He craned his neck to stare at Serafina, bedecked in dark navy blue, and the Inquisitor with the eyes of the hawk on the podium. Hunger in one gaze, an undecipherable mix in the other. Gazes flicked between each other, weighing him.

In contrast to his alabaster surroundings, Lysander's ebony form and cold visage stood out awkwardly. Was I what you were expecting? He didn't dare look away from them. Golden eyes fixated on the strange beings before him, dragging at every detail. Much like outside, he found no torn edges or smoky drapes in their faces, only a brusque, storm-weathered beauty as crisp as marbled stone.

---

Seventh day of Breezemist, 1141 - The Tower of Arcana, Solarion
Serafina Magesteria, Guild Master.

As Lysander's figure entered the Council Halls, Serafina's gaze was immediately drawn to him, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension swirling within her. The grandeur of the chamber seemed to pale in comparison to the enigmatic presence of the avian before her. His arrival carried an air of reserved defiance, an unspoken challenge to the formality and hierarchy of the council.

Good riddance. The stuffy halfwits needed someone to shake things up a little, someone to challenge their supposed authority. Sera only feared that he would get more than he bargained for in return.

Sera couldn't help but wonder what led the council's attention to him, what stories and secrets he carried beneath his stoic exterior. The council members' reactions, a blend of sidelong glances and hushed murmurs, only added to the mystery, fueling her determination to understand more.

Yet, underlying her curiosity was a distinct apprehension. The council's judgmental gazes and the weight of their authority cast a shadow over the proceedings. Serafina knew that the council's intentions could range from genuine inquiry to ulterior motives, and the uncertainty of it all unsettled her. Her position as guildmaster might grant her influence, but she was still bound by the council's rules and protocols.

She would be able to ascertain what type of trial this was rather quickly. And when she did, she would be able to determine what varying degree of help she should offer to the unknown entity.

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Seventh day of Breezemist, 1141 - The Tower of Arcana, Solarion
Lord Thalos Meridian, Councillor and High Inquistor.

Lord Thalos Meridian, Councillor and High Inquisitor, stood tall and regal within the Council Halls, his dark eyes fixed on the avian who had just entered. A sinister smirk played upon his lips as he observed Lysander's unease, relishing in the discomfort he could detect in the avian's posture and expression. To Thalos, the avian's apparent squirming was a source of amusement, a subtle prelude to the grand spectacle he was about to orchestrate.

As the bailiff's voice echoed through the chamber, announcing the commencement of the court proceedings, Thalos' anticipation grew. He had been eagerly awaiting this moment, yearning to begin the inquisition that would expose the avian's connections to the Cult of the Black Sun, the vile and secretive organization that threatened the stability of their realm.

When the bailiff's duties concluded and silence settled over the chamber, Thalos stepped forward, his authoritative presence demanding attention. His black robes swirled around him as he faced the council members, his demeanor exuding an air of calculated formality. With a gesture, he signaled for their focus to be directed to him.

"My esteemed colleagues," Thalos began, his voice resonating with authority and eloquence. "Today, we gather in the pursuit of justice and truth, driven by our unwavering commitment to safeguarding our realm from all threats that seek to disrupt its harmony."

He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air, before continuing with measured deliberation. "The accused, Lysander Voronova, has come to our attention due to a collision with the forces of darkness that threaten our very existence. We stewards of this realm, chosen from our peers, are brought here to uncover the extent of his involvement with the insidious Cult of the Black Sun."

Thalos' gaze swept across the council members, each of whom bore a distinct aura of solemnity. "Let it be known that the Cult of the Black Sun, with its malevolent ambitions, seeks to undermine the very foundations of our society. It has wormed its tendrils into the heart of our realm, orchestrating unspeakable acts of cruelty and subversion."

His voice grew firmer, resonating with resolve as he continued. "Lysander Voronova, through his actions and affiliations, is suspected to have become entangled in this darkness. It is our solemn duty to ascertain the truth, to unveil any potential threat that may linger in his shadow. If we determine him guilty beyond redemption, we will punish him as so. Should his information consider him otherwise, we will decide how to handle him in accordance with his transgressions. But fairness all be meted out in the precision we follow. Justice shall be served."

There was a quiet snort from the guild bench, empty save the pesky guild master who liked to kept a little too informed.

Thalos' words hung in the air, heavy with the gravity of the situation. His gaze remained fixed on Lysander, his eyes glinting with a mixture of anticipation and resolve. The High Inquisitor's speech had set the stage for what was to come—a meticulous examination of Lysander's actions and associations, aimed at uncovering the truth and rooting out the tendrils of the Cult of the Black Sun that had insinuated themselves into their realm.

"Lysander Voronova, you may now present your opening defense to the council. Give your testimony during your time with the Black Sun. Councillors may stand to interject at any point. You do not need to acknowledge their questions, yet it will appear as a sign of weakness if you do not." Thalos grinned. It was the subtle words he used, so simple and and effective in manipulating his colleagues' minds. Defense, testimony, threat, justice... all of them were synonymous with danger. The more dangerous the Council thought he was, the harsher their justice. And a stupid Avian such as the one in front of him deserved to pay. Betraying Aeloria for a cult. They had all gotten off so easily last time.

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