Chapter 314: Schemes of Rulers Of Great Nations (1)

The news of the Jorailian banquet spread through the Conclave of Five Peaks like a contagion. It was not the boisterous, public feast of an emperor, but a quiet, exclusive gathering of the world’s forgotten powers. And that, to the true lions of the continent, was far more dangerous.

In the frozen, opulent heart of the Rimefrost Imperium’s pavilion, a structure carved from pure, magical ice that glittered with a cold, internal light, Empress Anastasia Volkov watched the events of the previous night unfold.

Her throne room was a place of breathtaking, sterile beauty. The walls were sheets of polished, ancient ice, the floor a mirror of frozen starlight. She sat upon a throne carved from a single, massive cryo-crystal, her form a vision of eternal, untouchable youth. Her silver-white hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes, the color of a winter sky, held a chilling, pragmatic intelligence.

Before her, a shadowy figure known only as The Collector knelt, his form a vortex of shifting darkness that seemed to absorb the light. He was her spymaster, her unseen eyes and ears across the continent. In the air before him, a series of scryed images shimmered, projected onto a floating block of enchanted ice.

The images showed the leaders of the minor factions entering the Jorailian pavilion, their faces a mixture of hope and apprehension. They showed the proud Chieftain Kaelen, the grim Master Forgemaster Borin, the feral Alpha Fenria.

“A banquet of beggars,” Empress Anastasia murmured, her voice the sound of cracking ice. She took a delicate sip from a goblet carved from a single, flawless diamond, filled with a liquid that shimmered like liquid moonlight. “How… quaint. This Duke Steele gathers the mice while the lions are away.”

The Collector’s voice was a dry, rustling whisper that seemed to come from the shadows themselves. “The mice are numerous, Your Majesty. And he is offering them very sharp teeth. My agents confirm that the discussions were of a… binding nature. He is not just hosting a party; he is forging a chain.”

Anastasia’s fingers, tipped with long, elegant nails that shimmered like shards of ice, tapped softly on the arm of her throne. She watched the scryed image of Alaric Steele as he greeted his guests, his charm a disarming, potent weapon. She had felt his power, a brief, shocking display when he had humbled the wolf alpha. It was raw, immense, and utterly untamed.

’Such a fascinating creature,’ she thought, her cold eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something that was not political calculation, but a strange, possessive interest, sparked in their icy depths. ’He rises from nothing, a commoner with no bloodline, no history. Yet he commands the power of an Elder Mage, the cunning of a seasoned emperor, and the audacity of a god.’

She had seen a hundred ambitious lords rise and fall. They were all so predictable, so… boring. But this Alaric Steele… he was different. He was a wild variable, a beautiful, dangerous anomaly in her perfectly ordered world.

And a part of her, a deep, primal, possessive part she rarely acknowledged, wanted him. She did not want him as an ally, an equal. That would be absurd. She wanted him as a possession. A magnificent, powerful, and utterly broken toy to be kept in her icy palace, his brilliance and power hers to command, his body hers to enjoy.

’But a wild stallion must first be broken,’ she mused, a slow, cruel smile touching her perfect, blood-red lips. ’His little empire of beggars… it must be shattered. He must be made to see the futility of his ambitions. He must be made helpless. Only then, when he is kneeling in the ashes of his failed dreams, will he be ready to accept the… generosity… of a true Empress.’

Her gaze settled on the scryed image of King Reginald of Strathmore, a weak, desperate old man clutching the arm of his beautiful, naive daughter.

“The old man, Reginald,” she said, her voice a soft, dismissive purr. “He is the weakest link in this new, rusty chain.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” The Collector whispered. “His kingdom is destitute, his armies are a shadow of their former glory. He is a walking corpse, animated only by a desperate, foolish hope.”

“A hope we are about to extinguish,” Anastasia declared, her voice a blade of pure, cold command. She leaned forward, her winter-sky eyes fixing The Collector with an unyielding, absolute authority. “Send a message to Baron von Hess of Frostwood.”

The Collector bowed his head, the shadows around him seeming to deepen. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

“The good Baron has long coveted the fertile southern farmlands of Strathmore,” Anastasia continued, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “A foolish ambition, until now. Inform him that the Rimefrost Imperium would look… favorably… upon an expansion of his barony. Inform him that his southern border is now… a matter of his own discretion.”

She paused, a flicker of amusement in her cold eyes. “We will, of course, offer our… logistical support. A few ’misplaced’ shipments of Rimefrost steel. A few ’rogue’ mages offering their services for a modest fee. And, most importantly, a guarantee of absolute, unwavering non-interference from us. Let him be the wolf we unleash upon the fold.”

“And when Strathmore cries out for aid?” The Collector asked, his voice a dry, rustling whisper.

“They will cry out to their new protector, this Duke Steele,” Anastasia replied, a triumphant, predatory smile gracing her perfect lips. “And he will be forced to choose. To expend his precious resources, his new, unproven artifacts, to protect a worthless, dying kingdom. Or to abandon his first new ally, proving his promises of protection to be nothing but empty words.”

She leaned back in her throne, a picture of perfect, icy satisfaction. “Either way, his new chain begins to rust. And he learns a valuable lesson. The lesson that in this world, there are lions. And there are mice. And no matter how sharp the teeth a mouse is given, it will never, ever, be a lion.”

She took another delicate sip of her moonlit drink, her gaze still fixed on the handsome, powerful face of Alaric Steele in the scryed image. ’Soon, my beautiful, arrogant commoner,’ she thought, a possessive, proprietary thrill shooting through her. ’Soon, you will be mine.’

The chill of the Rimefrost Imperium’s political machinations was a stark contrast to the stifling, incense-filled heat of the Radiant Theocracy’s pavilion.

Cardinal Alistair Cromwell, his face a mask of stern, righteous piety, paced his private chambers like a caged lion. The air was thick with the scent of holy incense, but it did nothing to soothe the cold, burning rage in his heart.

Before him knelt a monk from a secretive, fanatical order known as the Eyes of the Radiant God. The monk’s face was hidden in the shadows of his cowl, but his voice was a low, fervent whisper, recounting the events of the Jorailian banquet.

“…and the heathen beast, the one they call Alpha Fenria, was in attendance, Cardinal,” the monk reported, his voice filled with a pious disgust. “She sat at the table of this… heretic… and partook of his feast.”

“A beast at the table of men,” Cromwell hissed, his hand clutching the golden sunburst symbol that hung around his neck. “An abomination. A perversion of the natural order.”

“And the artifacts, Cardinal,” the monk continued. “Our agents have confirmed the reports. The Steele-tech artifacts… they produce a light that is… holy. It burns demons. It heals wounds. It mimics the power of the Radiant God’s own grace.”

Cromwell’s eyes, which had been burning with a righteous fury, now narrowed with a cold, political alarm. “He is a heretic trafficking in false miracles,” he spat, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “He gathers the desperate and the damned, offering them trinkets where they should seek salvation from the Radiant God. He is a false prophet, and his followers are a coven of the damned.”

The weakening of the Radiant God’s connection to the mortal realm was a terrifying, existential threat to the Theocracy. And now, this upstart Duke, this Alaric Steele, was offering the world a secular, technological alternative to divine protection. It was a direct, blasphemous challenge to their very existence.

“This cannot be allowed to stand,” Cromwell declared, his voice a low, resonant boom that seemed to shake the very air in the chamber. “The influence of the Radiant God must not be supplanted by the trinkets of a mortal artificer.”

He knew that a direct, military confrontation was crude, and likely futile, given the demonstrated power of Steele’s artifacts. No, his weapon was far more potent. His weapon was faith.

His target was Master Forgemaster Borin Stonehand. The dwarf was honorable, traditional, and desperate to cure his ailing daughter. A perfect, tragic vulnerability.

“Summon Inquisitor Theron,” Cromwell commanded, his voice a cold, hard instrument of command.

A moment later, the Inquisitor entered. He was a tall, handsome man, his face radiating a charismatic, beatific warmth. But his eyes, the color of a summer sky, held the unwavering, unyielding fire of a true fanatic. He was the most powerful Cleric in Cromwell’s personal retinue, a man whose “miraculous” healings were the stuff of legend. And whose ruthlessness in the pursuit of heretics was equally legendary.

“Your Eminence,” Theron said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone as he knelt before the Cardinal.

“Inquisitor,” Cromwell began, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “There is a soul in need of salvation. And a heretic in need of… correction.”

He laid out his plan, a masterpiece of psychological and spiritual manipulation. “The daughter of the dwarf, Borin Stonehand,” he explained. “She is afflicted with a magical curse. A petrifying illness. Her father is desperate. And desperation, as we know, can be a powerful tool.”

“You will travel to Ironhelm after the Conclave has concluded,” Cromwell instructed, his eyes gleaming with a cunning, zealous light. “You will go not as an Inquisitor, but as a humble servant of the Radiant God, a healer on a pilgrimage.”

“You will offer the dwarf a true miracle,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A divine cure that flows from the Radiant God’s own grace. You will heal his daughter.”

Theron’s eyes lit up with a fervent, zealous fire. “A glorious opportunity to demonstrate the power of the Radiant God, Your Eminence!”

“Indeed,” Cromwell purred. “But the healing is merely the key that unlocks the door. While you are there, you will remind the dwarf where salvation truly lies. You will tell him that this Duke Steele, this purveyor of false miracles, is a heretic. That his methods are demonic in nature. That any ’cure’ he might offer will only corrupt his daughter’s soul, damning her for all eternity.”

He paused, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. “And the cure itself, Inquisitor… it will be a special one. You will use the Blessing of the Eternal Sun, the one that not only heals the body, but… purifies the soul.”

Theron’s eyes widened in understanding. The Blessing of the Eternal Sun was a powerful, and deeply secret, ritual. It not only healed, but it also subtly, irrevocably, brainwashed its recipient, turning them into a devout, fanatical, and utterly loyal follower of the Radiant God.

“The girl… she will become a vessel for the Radiant God’s will,” Theron whispered, his voice filled with a hushed, reverent awe.

“Precisely,” Cromwell confirmed. “She will be our most potent weapon. Healed by our miracle, her soul purified by our blessing, she will convince her father, and through him, the entire dwarven race, that their destiny is to serve the Radiant God. To turn against the heretic Steele and his blasphemous creations. To become a holy sword in the hands of the Theocracy.”

He leaned closer, his final words a chilling, absolute threat. “And if the dwarf refuses our grace, Inquisitor? If he chooses the heretic’s path?”

Theron’s handsome face hardened, his blue eyes turning to chips of cold, hard ice. “Then I will remind him, Your Eminence, what the Inquisition of Sacred Flames does to those who consort with demons. His forges may burn hot. But our holy fire burns hotter. And it burns for eternity.”

He rose, his face once again a mask of beatific, charismatic warmth. “The Radiant God’s will be done, Your Eminence,” he said, his voice a rich, resonant promise. He bowed and left the chamber, a holy warrior on a holy mission. A mission of salvation. And damnation.