Chapter 310: Sending Invitations

The sun had barely crested the highest of the Five Peaks when the master chamber of the Jorailian pavilion, a scene of utter, exquisite debauchery just hours before, was transformed into a quiet, efficient hub of activity. The heavy scent of sex had been banished by a whisper of cleansing wind magic, the tangled furs and silks replaced with crisp, clean linen.

Alaric, already dressed in a fresh set of dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a simple silk shirt, stood before a large map of the valley, a cup of steaming, fragrant tea in his hand. He looked as if he had enjoyed a full night of restful sleep, his Archmage physique radiating a calm, potent energy.

Before him stood his three most powerful assets. Queen Ondine, Archmage Priscilla, and Archmage Zylle. They too were dressed, their magnificent, mature bodies now concealed beneath elegant, yet subtly form-fitting gowns. Their faces were pale, their eyes held the deep, bruised weariness of a night spent being thoroughly, relentlessly used. But there was no defiance in their gaze. Only a quiet, ingrained obedience.

“The board is set,” Alaric began, his voice a low, calm rumble that cut through the morning stillness. He gestured towards the map. “The pieces are in place. Now, we weave the web.”

He turned to Ondine, his ruby eyes sharp and assessing. “My Queen,” he said, the title a silken command. “You will handle the formalities. I want this banquet to be the most talked-about event of the Conclave. A spectacle of wealth, power, and prestige that will make even the Dragon Emperor take notice.”

Ondine, her dark eyes shining with a mixture of adoration and ambition, bowed her head. “Yes, my Lord. The invitations shall be a work of art, befitting your prestige. I will secure the finest caterers, the most sought-after musicians from the Azure Serpent Republic, the most exotic entertainers. The Jorailian pavilion will be the undeniable center of this summit.”

“See that it is,” Alaric replied, a faint smile touching his lips. He then turned his gaze to Priscilla, who stood a half-step behind Ondine, her expression a mask of cold, professional duty.

“Priscilla,” he said, his voice a soft, almost intimate purr that made her flinch almost imperceptibly. “You will be the architect of the evening’s… ambiance.”

Priscilla’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, but her voice was a low, steady murmur of submission. “The enchantments… will be prepared, my Lord.”

“Subtlety is key,” Alaric instructed, as if discussing a simple arcane theory. “Illusions of starlight on the ceiling. A gentle, almost imperceptible charm aura woven into the very air, to lower inhibitions and promote feelings of… goodwill. And,” his eyes glinted, “discreet scrying artifacts, disguised as ornate crystal decorations. I want to be able to monitor every key conversation, every whispered secret.”

“It… it will be done, my Lord,” Priscilla whispered, her gaze fixed on the floor. To use her profound Archmage knowledge, her mastery of the arcane arts, for such… insidious purposes… it was a new, exquisite form of humiliation. But she would obey. She had no other choice.

Finally, Alaric turned to Zylle, who stood like a beautiful, deadly statue, her face a mask of cold, simmering hatred.

“Zylle,” he commanded. “Your true work begins now. I need dossiers. Detailed, concise, and utterly comprehensive. On every single guest we intend to invite.”

Zylle’s obsidian eyes, which had been fixed on some distant point, now met his. They were filled with a cold, burning fire, but also with a grudging, professional focus. This was her element. Espionage. Information. The art of dissecting souls.

“The dossiers will be on your desk by nightfall, Master,” she said, her voice a low, resentful hiss.

“Good,” Alaric purred. He then turned and left the chamber, leaving the three most powerful women in his new empire to their tasks. Three Archmages, their immense power now bent to the singular, all-consuming purpose of orchestrating a dinner party. A dinner party that would change the world.

Ondine moved with a newfound, terrifying efficiency. She was no longer just the cunning widow of a powerful clan; she was the Queen of an Empire, and the favored consort of a being whose power she was only just beginning to comprehend. She summoned aides, her commands crisp and absolute.

“The invitations will be drafted on vellum from the Sunken Sands Caliphate, inscribed with gold-leaf ink from the Celestial Dragon Empire,” she instructed a trembling, awestruck scribe. “The calligraphy will be my own. Let there be no doubt as to the personal nature of this summons.”

She met with the Conclave’s master of provisions, a man who had initially treated her with a polite, dismissive condescension. Now, he bowed low, his face pale with a new, profound respect. “The finest wines from the Verdant Reach, the rarest spices from the southern deserts, the most succulent meats from the Rimefrost Imperium’s herds,” Ondine commanded, her voice a silken whip. “I want a feast that will be remembered for a century. The cost is… irrelevant.”

Priscilla, in the grand, empty ballroom of the Jorailian pavilion, worked with a cold, detached precision. She was a master of her art, and even in her degradation, her professional pride would not allow for shoddy work. She was accompanied by Kara and Ulriya, Alaric’s two Grand Mage maids, who followed her instructions with a wide-eyed, almost fearful devotion.

“No, Kara,” Priscilla’s voice was sharp, cutting. “The harmonic frequency of the charm matrix is off. It must be a suggestion of goodwill, not an overt compulsion. We are seducing them, not enslaving them. At least, not yet.”

Kara flinched at her tone but nodded quickly, her hands moving to recalibrate the intricate runic array. Ulriya, her own powerful aura of ice and water a stark contrast to the subtle warmth of the charm spell, worked on the illusionary enchantments, her movements surprisingly graceful.

Priscilla watched them, a bitter taste in her mouth. ’He uses my mind, my skills, as easily as he uses my body,’ she thought, a wave of despair washing over her. ’Damn him. Damn him for being so brilliant, so… effective.’

Zylle Mordan was a ghost in the bustling, chaotic valley of the Conclave. She moved through the encampments of the minor factions, her presence a mere flicker in the corner of an eye, a shadow that was there one moment and gone the next.

She met with her agents in a dimly lit, smoke-filled tent in the mercenary quarter. They were two of Alaric’s own Steele household guards, men whose loyalty was absolute, but who had been secretly trained by Brita Kuusk in the subtle, deadly arts of the Phantom Assembly. They were ghosts in Steele livery.

Zylle’s briefing was cold, precise, a chilling echo of her former life. “Chieftain Kaelen of the Gryphon Riders. Target his pride and his libido. Learn the name of the tavern girl he favors in the lower valley. Find out what vintage of wine makes him… talkative.”

“Master Forgemaster Borin Stonehand of Ironhelm. His daughter. Get a full diagnostic of her illness. I need to know the exact nature of the magical curse. We need leverage, not just rumors.”

“Alpha Fenria of the Silver Moon Wolf Tribe. Power. Find out which of her pack challenges her authority. A young, ambitious beta, perhaps? We can offer to… remove the challenger. Anonymously, of course.”

“King Reginald of Strathmore. Desperation. Find out exactly how empty his treasury is. Find out which of his nobles are on the brink of rebellion. We need to know where to apply the pressure.”

Her agents nodded silently and melted back into the shadows. Zylle stood for a moment, the familiar thrill of the hunt, of the game of secrets, a cold comfort in her shattered soul. ’Lord Vortan taught me to dissect souls,’ she thought, her obsidian eyes hard as flint. ’Now, I do it for another master. The irony is a blade in my gut. But I will do it perfectly. My perfection is the only defiance I have left.’

The invitations, delivered by exquisitely uniformed Bellerose honor guards, arrived at the pavilions of the minor factions like golden tickets to paradise. And the reactions were exactly as Alaric’s new, formidable intelligence network had predicted.

In a high, wind-swept aerie carved from the very rock of one of the Five Peaks, Chieftain Kaelen of the Gryphon Riders received the invitation with a suspicious scowl. He was a proud, pragmatic man, his face weathered by a thousand high-altitude winds, his hair a wild, untamed mane.

“A banquet?” he grunted, his voice a low rumble. “From this new ’Queen’ Bellerose? Why court us now? We are a free people. We bow to no monarch.”

His chief advisor, an old shaman named Glynnis whose eyes held the wisdom of the mountains, advised caution. “Her power is new, my Chieftain. Her advisor, the Duke Steele, is a mystery. It could be a trap to force our allegiance.”

But Kaelen’s pride was a powerful beast. He looked at the invitation again. “A private audience, she offers? She recognizes our strength. The demons that fled Steele’s cleansing… they have been harassing our lower aeries. We need aid.” He slammed a fist onto the stone table. “We will go. But we go ready for a fight.”

Deep within a grand forge carved into the heart of another of the Five Peaks, Master Forgemaster Borin Stonehand received the invitation with a grim, weary sigh. The air in his cavernous hall was hot, ringing with the sound of hammers on steel, but his heart was cold.

He looked at the invitation, then at the closed door to a nearby chamber, where his youngest daughter, Helga, lay pale and still, her body slowly, inexorably turning to a cold, lifeless stone, the work of a terrible, unknown magical curse.

“Trade?” he muttered to his wife, Astrid, a stout, kind-faced dwarfess whose eyes were red-rimmed from weeping. “Jorailia has absorbed Eloriath’s resources. They have much to offer. And their need for our Ironhelm steel will be great.”

Astrid clutched his arm, her voice a desperate plea. “Borin… perhaps their mages, their alchemists… they have knowledge our healers lack? They say this Duke Steele… he is a worker of miracles.”

Borin’s grim face softened, his heart aching with a father’s love. “For Helga…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “For my little girl… I would deal with dragons and demons. We will attend.”

In a sacred, moonlit glade in the encampment of the Silver Moon Wolf Tribe, Alpha Fenria, a fierce, beautiful woman in her humanoid form, with hair like spun silver and piercing yellow eyes that held the wildness of the wolf, received the invitation with a low, predatory growl.

“Human politics are a sickness,” she snarled, her perfect lips curling in disdain. “They speak of alliances when they mean chains.”

An older wolf elder, Ulfrich, his form a massive, silver-furred wolf, spoke, his voice a low, rumbling growl that was more a thought projected than a sound. “But these humans defeated the legion of the Demon King, Alpha. Their power is undeniable. To ignore it would be foolish. We must know the strength of this new predator that has entered our lands.”

Fenria’s yellow eyes narrowed. Ulfrich was right. She was the Alpha. It was her duty to protect her pack, and that meant understanding every threat, and every potential opportunity. “I will go,” she declared, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “I will look this Duke Steele in the eye, and I will see the truth of his spirit.”

And in a crumbling, drafty pavilion in the lowest, muddiest part of the valley, King Reginald of Strathmore, an aging, desperate man whose kingdom was on the brink of collapse, clutched the invitation like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood.

“An invitation!” he cried, tears of relief streaming down his face. “They see us! They have not forgotten us!”

His daughter, the beautiful, pragmatic Princess Eleanor, watched him with a mixture of pity and concern. “Father, be wary,” she cautioned gently. “They are a great power. They will demand a steep price for their aid.”

King Reginald shook his head, his eyes shining with a desperate, feverish hope. “Any price, my dear! Any price for a chance to save our people!”

The web was woven. The threads of desperation, of pride, of ambition, of love, all pulled taut. The guests had accepted their invitations. The banquet was set. And the spiders, Alaric Steele and his three beautiful, deadly Archmages, waited patiently in the center of it all, their appetites whetted, their traps baited, ready for the feast to begin.