Chapter 43: A World on the Verge
The marble dome of the Conclave Chamber echoed with the storm of voices, a clash of power and pride beneath the banners of every race. At the center, around the table of ’unity’, the Circle of Arbiters had gathered. Intricate runes shimmered faintly along the curved walls, resonating with ambient aetheric energy. A silent reminder of the chamber’s ancient authority.
The moment Gareth, the Human Arbiter, entered, the temperature shifted. His boots struck the floor like war drums. Without waiting for formality, he stormed across the room, bypassing ritual and station, heading straight for the elven side of the chamber.
"You smug, tree hugging bastards!" Gareth bellowed, voice ricocheting through the pillars. "First our trade routes, now our sanctums? The Holy Verrenate is being butchered, It couldn’t be Feralis with such a destructive and organized attack this leaves only your zealots! And we all know your kind hides behind silence and illusion!"
The Elven Arbiter did not blink. Did not speak. Did not even deem Gareth’s outburst worthy of a reaction. He remained poised, hands folded over a polished scroll case, silver embroidery catching the light like frost.
A low, throaty chuckle curled up from the side, the Feralis Arbiter, whose grin stretched wide enough to show a full line of gleaming fang. It wasn’t a smile. It was instinct. Predatory amusement. Her clawed fingers tapped the table rhythmically, like a hunter savoring the scent of panic.
A ripple of magic stirred the air.
Then came a sound like thunder. A fist, veiled in silk, slammed down upon the table.
Silence followed. Immediate and absolute.
The Veiled Arbiter, who sat at the head of the circle, remained motionless save for the curled fingers still pressed against the black stone. The table itself, a slab of voidstone mined from the Rift Peaks groaned beneath the force.
Gareth bowed, only slightly, but the gesture still carried weight. Among the Circle, only the arbiters knew the truth. This figure, ageless and masked, was no mere equal. He was the High Arbiter of Verthalis, alive since before the Sundering, the last remnant of a time even history dared not fully recall. It was he and the other arbiters of their time who had founded the Circle, decreed its laws, and demanded that each race be represented by one.
No one knew his face. No one knew his race.