Chapter 306: The Conclave of Five Peaks

The next entire month was spent in travelling as the silence that followed Ingranad’s Demon Forces’s annihilation was slowly filled by the tramp of marching feet, the creak of wagon wheels, and the hushed, fearful whispers of a new world order being forged from the ashes of the old.

The journey to the Conclave of Five Peaks was a procession of undeniable, breathtaking power. Queen Ondine Bellerose, her form a vision of dark, regal beauty in exquisitely tailored traveling silks of Bellerose black and silver, rode at the head of the Jorailian delegation. She was the focal point, the new Queen of a new Empire, her expression a perfect mask of serene authority.

By her side, as her chief advisor and most powerful Duke, rode Alaric Steele. He was a stark, captivating contrast to her dark elegance. Dressed in simple but impeccably tailored dark tunics that did nothing to conceal the lean, predatory power of his physique, he was the silent, handsome enigma at the heart of Jorailia’s newfound might. His ruby eyes, calm and assessing, missed nothing.

Behind them rode their personal retinue, a walking, breathing declaration of power that was both subtle and utterly terrifying to those with the senses to perceive it. Archmage Priscilla, the last true Archmage of the fallen Eloriath Kingdom, her face a mask of cold, professional duty, her magnificent, voluptuous body a testament to the power she wielded. And Archmage Zylle Mordan, her beauty as sharp and deadly as a shard of obsidian, her presence a chilling reminder of the Phantom Assembly’s broken pride. They were introduced as advisors, specialists. The truth, that they were Alaric’s beautiful, powerful, and utterly subjugated slaves, was a secret known only to those within the inner circle, a secret that radiated from them in a palpable aura of unwilling, yet absolute, submission.

General Tauron, his face a grim, weathered map of a hundred battles, led their honor guard—a dozen of Jorailia’s finest Grandmaster Martialists, their armor gleaming, their loyalty to their new Queen, and the power she represented, absolute.

Each of the core members of Alaric’s personal entourage—Ondine, Priscilla, and Zylle—carried a small, hidden weight. A cool, obsidian disc. A Recall Anchor. It was a constant, unspoken source of confidence, a secret ace in a game where betrayal was as common as breathing. No matter the political intrigue, no matter the potential treachery that awaited them at the summit, they had a guaranteed, instantaneous escape route back to the impenetrable safety of the Azure Fortress. It was a leash, yes, but it was also a lifeline.

As they traveled, they witnessed the new reality of the continent. The lands of the former Eloriath were a patchwork of ruin and reconstruction. Jorailian legions, armed with Steele-tech, patrolled the major trade routes, their presence a firm, undeniable assertion of the new order. The demonic threat had been pushed back, contained, but the scars of their invasion were everywhere.

Finally, after a month of relentless travel, they saw them. The Five Peaks. Five colossal, snow-capped mountains, so high their peaks seemed to scrape the heavens, arranged in a perfect, majestic circle. And nestled within that circle, a vast, temperate valley, shielded from the world’s harsh realities by ancient, powerful magic. The Conclave of Five Peaks. A legendary neutral ground. A place for kings and gods to parley.

The valley floor was a sprawling, temporary city of pavilions, banners, and encampments, a vibrant, chaotic tapestry of a dozen different cultures and powers. A clear, unspoken hierarchy was immediately visible.

On a series of elevated, artificially flattened plateaus that overlooked the central meeting grounds, the great powers had established their domains. The Jorailian Empire, as the newcomer to this exclusive club, was granted a prominent, newly-cleared plateau. Their pavilion was magnificent, a structure of dark Jorailian wood and shimmering Eloriath silk, but it lacked the ancient, weathered authority of the others. It was the pavilion of an upstart, a nouveau riche power whose place at the high table was still being grudgingly accepted.

Below them, in the sprawling lower valley, a hundred other banners flew. Smaller kingdoms, tribal delegations, mercenary guilds, and beast clans, all gathered in the shadow of the great powers, their own pavilions a chaotic jumble of different architectural styles and cultural symbols.

The air itself was thick with tension, a palpable web of ancient rivalries, fresh wounds, and burgeoning new threats.

On a plateau of black, jagged coral that seemed to have been ripped from the very depths of the sea, the delegation of the Sea Monsters was a terrifying sight. The Abyssal Lord Krýllos himself was present, his tall, humanoid form radiating an aura of crushing cold and immense power that made the very air around his pavilion seem to shimmer with frost. He was accompanied by Merrow honor guards in armor of black coral that seemed to writhe with a life of its own, and a few of his most powerful Seventh Order Sea Monster Lords, their forms grotesque, alien, and utterly terrifying.

Directly opposite them, on a plateau of sun-baked sandstone that seemed to radiate a gentle, constant heat, was the delegation of the Suntouched Confederacy. Their leader, the shrewd and cautious Councilor Zahir Al-Fariq, watched the Sea Monster pavilion with a gaze of pure, unadulterated hatred. Their war was the summit’s most active, most brutal conflict, a raw, open wound in the fabric of the continent’s fragile peace.

The other great human kingdoms had established their own domains, each a reflection of their unique character.

The Rimefrost Imperium’s pavilion was a breathtaking structure carved from pure, magical ice, its spires glittering like diamonds in the valley’s perpetual twilight. At its heart, seated on a throne of frozen starlight, was the eternally youthful Empress Anastasia Volkov. She was a figure of icy, untouchable beauty, her Elder Mage power a palpable aura of absolute zero that seemed to leech the warmth from the very air around her. Her relationship with the Suntouched Confederacy was, predictably, one of frosty disdain.

The Celestial Dragon Empire’s pavilion was the most magnificent of all, a multi-tiered pagoda of lacquered wood and golden silk, guarded by silent, terracotta-like golems that stood as motionless as the mountains themselves. Within, the ancient and powerful Dragon Emperor Huang Long held court, his presence a calm, unshakable mountain of martial and spiritual power. His primary rival, a feud that had simmered for centuries, was the Kensei Shogunate.

The Shogunate’s pavilion was a stark contrast to the Dragon Empire’s opulence. It was a simple, elegant structure of dark wood and paper screens, its beauty one of minimalist perfection. The reclusive but legendary Shogun Minamoto Yoshitsune was said to be within, though few had seen him. His presence was felt in the silent, deadly grace of the Kensei—the Sword Saints—who stood guard, their hands never far from the hilts of their katanas, their spirits as sharp and unyielding as the blades they carried.

And then there was the Radiant Theocracy of Solara. Their pavilion was a miniature cathedral of white marble and stained glass, glowing with a soft, internal light. It was represented not by the Pontifex Maximus himself, whose power had been mysteriously, catastrophically weakened, but by the stern and pious Cardinal Alistair Cromwell. He was a man whose faith was a weapon, his political cunning a shield. He was here to assess the new power dynamics, and to investigate the source of the “heretical” holy magic that Alaric’s artifacts produced, a magic that mocked the Radiant God’s own faltering light.

The Beast Races had their own vast, more naturalistic encampment, a sprawling collection of magnificent yurts, carved wooden longhouses, and dens dug into the valley walls. They were a powerful neutral bloc, their internal politics a complex web of ancient traditions and fierce rivalries. Their presence was a stark, primal reminder that humanity was not the only major power on this continent.

The atmosphere was thick with memory and suspicion. An old, wizened diplomat from a minor southern kingdom, a man named Lord Tiberius who had attended these summits for half a century, watched the arrival of the Jorailian delegation with a mixture of awe and deep unease.

“I remember the last summit,” he murmured to his young, wide-eyed aide. “Ten years ago. King Thaleon of Eloriath and King Rouben of Jorailia… they were minor players. Respectable, yes, but their voices were whispers in the council of giants. They spent most of their time trying to secure minor trade deals and stay out of the Dragon Emperor’s shadow.”

He gestured with a trembling hand towards the magnificent new Jorailian pavilion. “And now… look. Their combined territories are ruled by a woman no one had even heard of a year ago. A Queen who rose from the ashes of a civil war, armed with weapons that defy comprehension.”

His gaze shifted to the figure riding beside her. The young, impossibly handsome Duke. “And this Duke Steele… they say he is a boy, barely a man grown, yet he commands the power to shatter demons and arm an empire. It is… unnatural. It is a disruption of the ancient order of things. And I fear… I fear it is a harbinger of a new, more terrible kind of war.”

As Ondine’s delegation settled into their new, temporary home, they were immediately approached by envoys from the smaller, more desperate kingdoms. The chaos of the demonic war had left many of them shattered, their lands ravaged, their armies depleted. They saw in Jorailia’s newfound strength a potential lifeline.

The aging King Reginald of Strathmore, a small northern kingdom that had suffered greatly from demonic remnants fleeing the fall of the Mystic Ice Sect’s outer defenses, was the first to approach. He was a stooped, weary man, his fine robes frayed, his eyes filled with a desperate hope.

“Your Majesty, Queen Ondine Bellerose,” he said, his voice trembling slightly as he offered a deep, respectful bow. “An honor. We of Strathmore… we have suffered greatly. Your… remarkable artifacts… we have heard tales of their power. We would be most interested in discussing a trade agreement. Our kingdom may be small, but our mines produce the finest star-silver in the world, a metal known for its unique magical conductivity.”

Ondine, her expression a perfect mask of queenly grace and sympathy, listened patiently. She had been thoroughly briefed by Alaric on how to handle these initial overtures.

“King Reginald,” she said, her voice a warm, reassuring balm. “Your plight is known to us, and our heart aches for the suffering of your people. The Jorailian Empire stands ready to aid all who fight against the darkness.” She offered him a gracious smile. “A trade agreement is certainly a possibility we can explore. My chief advisor, Duke Steele, will be holding preliminary trade talks later in the summit. I will ensure your request is given the highest priority.”

She was polite. She was gracious. And she was utterly noncommittal. She was establishing their status. They were not here as supplicants. They were here as a major power, a purveyor of miracles, and those who sought their favor would have to wait their turn.

King Reginald, his heart soaring with a flicker of renewed hope, bowed again, profusely thanking the Queen for her consideration. He was followed by a delegation from the Gryphon Riders of the Sky-Cliffs, a proud, isolationist human clan whose mountain aeries had been besieged by winged demonic horrors. They offered rare sky-gems and the service of their elite riders in exchange for Alaric’s anti-air artifact schematics.

Then came the Dwarven Forgemasters of the Ironhelm Mountains, their bearded faces grim. Their deep-hold mines were being threatened by demonic burrowers, and they sought Alaric’s earth-warding technologies, offering in return their unparalleled skill in forging enchanted alloys.

One by one, the desperate and the opportunistic came, each with their own plea, their own offer. And to each, Ondine offered the same gracious, noncommittal response. The message was clear. The Jorailian Empire, and the true power behind it, Duke Alaric Steele, were now major players on the world stage. And the world, wary and desperate, was lining up to pay tribute.