The Staril council hall loomed before me.


    I snorted derisively. It was a grandiose-sounding name for what was only an oversized log cabin, after all. The only permanent structure in the Quarter, the building rose above the surrounding tents, its wooden walls weathered silvery gray. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning pine and something else—something earthier, like damp soil. The roof was a patchwork of overlapping logs, sealed with moss and tar, and the door, though sturdy, hung slightly ajar as if inviting in the fresh summer air.


    I pushed the door open, knowing already that I was late for the day’s lessons. Marak wouldn’t say anything—he never did—but I would feel the sting of his anger nonetheless, if not from his sharp tongue, then certainly from the side of his quick blade. I smiled grimly. But after more than ten years of relentless training under the old elf, I was not the easy mark I’d once been, and today, I vowed the weaponmaster would land no blows.


    The inside of the hall was dim, the rays filtering in through narrow slits in the walls that served as windows being too meager to flood its depths with light. Having anticipated the dimness, I paused in the doorway while my eyes adjusted.


    The scent of old wood and the faint tang of pipe smoke hung heavy in the air. The room itself was sparsely furnished. Woven reed mats covered the floor. A single large hearth dominated the far wall, and empty benches lined the left and right walls.


    The rest of the hall was not as vacant as I expected, though. At the soft hum of voices coming from the far corner, I turned my gaze that way to the low wooden table set there. Marak was present, of course. But so, too, were my other three mentors: Hengar, Borin, and Elinor.


    A stifled a groan, realizing what their presence foretold.


    Knowing there was no escaping the scolding that awaited me, I stiffened my spine and strode boldly into the hall, studying the four while I did.


    Marak sat with his back to me, his whipcord frame ramrod straight, and his skin appearing more black than green that was its true color in the poor light. The elf’s silver hair was pulled back into a tight braid, and his hands rested on the hilts of his twin daggers, a habit he’d never broken. Beside him, Hengar slouched forward, his enormous frame folded into a chair that seemed entirely too small for him. His eyes, pale and almost colorless, flicked up as I entered, but he said nothing, his expression unreadable.


    Borin’s face, on the other hand, was all too easy to decipher. The dwarf’s broad face was red with indignation, and his bushy gray beard was practically quivering as he gestured sharply at me with one meaty hand. He was already muttering to himself, too—never a good sign. Elinor, seated to his left, was a study in contrast. Her eyes were soft and brimmed with worry. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and her white hair was pulled back into a loose bun, with only a few strands escaping to frame her round face.


    The silver foursome, I had called them once. And though the epithet had been made in jest, it was unfortunately all too true. All four were old for their species. Elinor and Hengar were both in their sixties, Borin was approaching a hundred, and although Marak wouldn’t reveal his age, I was certain he’d seen one hundred and forty already.


    A twinge of sadness passed through me. Soon, I will lose even them.


    Suppressing the emotion, I stopped a yard from the table and rested my hands on my hips. “So,” I said, trying to keep my tone light despite the knot forming in my gut. “What’s this? A welcoming committee?”


    Marak turned his head, his piercing eyes narrowing as he took in my disheveled state. I’d not taken the time to clean up before coming here—a mistake I would soon regret, I suspected—and the marks of the forest still clung to me.


    The elf’s gaze lingered on a particular large smudge of dirt on my cheek before shifting to the faint tear in my sleeve. “You look like you’ve been crawling through a thorn bush,” he commented dryly.


    I winced. The observation was all too acute, but I wished Marak had kept it to himself. His words would only give Borin a target for his displeasure.


    “I suspect he was doing just that,” Borin growled, latching on to the weaponmaster’s remarks. The dwarf’s brows furrowed into a single, formidable line. “And where do you suppose he would’ve found a thorn bush inside the Quarter?”


    I sighed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Borin—”


    “You went out again,” Borin cut in, his voice rising. He slammed a hand on the table, making the cutlery set on it jump. “Today of all days! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”


    “I went for a walk,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “That’s all. I needed some air.”


    “A walk?” Borin spat, his face turning redder and his beard bristling. “A walk in the forest? A walk outside the palisade walls where the Erast Council expressly forbid you to go? That’s all you say?” His hand thumped down again. “You’re the heir for Odeon’s sake, Bael Staril! You can’t just… just gallivant around whenever you wish! Do you have any idea of the risks you’re taking? Of the responsibility you carry?”


    “Responsibility?” I repeated, my own voice rising despite myself. “You’re always going on about responsibility, but you never listen when I tell you what needs doing!”


    “Need?” Borin barked, his chair scraping against the floor as he surged to his feet. “You don’t know the first thing about need! What the people need is a leader. Not you lying dead is some godforsaken ditch!”


    “What they need is food!” I shot back. “How many times do I have to say it? Unless we can secure a plentiful source of food, our people will never—”


    “Boy, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Borin roared. “But it’s not your place to feed us. You’re the son of Reya Staril, for the love of all that’s holy!”


    My face drained of color at the mention of my mother’s name. “Don’t you drag—”


    “Enough!” Elinor snapped, her voice cut through the room like a whip. The matronly old woman almost never raised her voice, but when she did, no one failed to heed her. Falling silent, both Borin and I turned her way.


    Elinor rose from her seat, her frail frame trembling. “Borin, you’ve no call bringing the boy’s mother into this.” She turned furious eyes on me. “And Bael, you should know better. You do know better.”


    I looked away, not meeting her gaze.


    “Now, sit down the both of you and stop this foolishness,” she said.


    The room fell silent, the only sound the soft crackle of the hearth. Borin’s chest was still heaving, but he subsided, muttering under his breath as he sat back down. Elinor turned to me, her expression softening, but there was a warning in her eyes, too. “Sit, Bael,” she said quietly, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. “We need to talk.”


    I hesitated for a moment, then relented, dropping into the chair with a sigh. The wood creaked under me, and I leaned back, trying to look as nonchalant as possible despite the tension in the room.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    As I sat there, my mind wandered over what the four represented. The silver foursome, I called them. But they were more than that, more than the only family I’d known, more than unrelenting taskmasters who plied me every day with lessons on statecraft, fighting, lore, the System, and so on and so on… they were also the only leaders the Staril refugees had remaining.


    The four were the new Staril Council.


    The very idea that these four old people, long past their prime and lacking any of the gifts the Champions took for granted, were solely responsible for the fate of the thousands of Staril refugees sheltering beneath Erast would have been laughable if it wasn’t so depressing.


    Twenty years ago, before the fall of Staril, the Staril council had been a formidable body, made up of the city’s elite, its most powerful Champions. Now, it was just this—four old people sitting in a log cabin, trying to hold on to something that was already gone.


    But Elinor, Borin, Hengar, and Marak weren’t just any old people either.


    Of all those who had survived the city’s fall, they were the ones who’d known my mother best. They had served her in her palace. Borin as her seneschal, Marak as her weaponmaster, Elinor as her personal secretary, and Hengar as her stablemaster. They had also taken it upon themselves to raise me. Dedicating what remained of their lives to train me and prepare me for the day when I would be able to take up my mother’s mantle.


    Reya Staril. My mother.


    The name still carried weight, even after all these years. The refugees spoke of her in hushed tones, as if she were a saint, a hero who’d given her life to save them. And in a way, she had. But she’d also failed. The enclave of Staril was gone, its people scattered, and its Champions broken or turned traitor. And now, all that was left was this—this tiny, struggling community in the Low Quarter of Erast, clinging to the past like a lifeline.


    I didn’t blame them. I really didn’t. But sometimes, like today, it felt like my mentors were more focused on what they’d lost than on trying to build something of what remained, something different.


    “Bael,” Marak said, his voice breaking into my thoughts. “Are you listening?”


    I blinked, focusing on him. “No,” I admitted, earning a sharp look from Borin.


    “Then perhaps you should start,” the elf said dryly. “This is important.”


    Sighing, I nodded. “Fine. Talk.”


    Marak’s sharp eyes met mine, his gaze piercing through the dimness. “What were you doing outside the walls?” Clearly, he hadn’t bought my earlier answer.


    I shrugged, then came clean. “Hunting,” I admitted.


    Elinor’s expression softened. She knew better than most what spurred my frequent hunting trips. “You picked a bad day for it,” she said gently.


    Borin snorted, his elbows thudding against the table as he leaned forward. “Any day would be a bad day for jumping the walls. And besides, that’s not the point. The point is he was seen.”


    I frowned. The dwarf’s words implied the four had known about Adron and my escapade even before I entered the room. Cleaning up first would not have saved me after all, it seemed. Still, another more disturbing question drew my attention. “Seen? Seen by whom?” I asked.


    Hengar, silent until now, spoke up, his voice low and gravelly. “You and Adron were spotted the moment you two left the palisade walls this morning. The Erast Council knows as well as we do what day today is.” He held my gaze. “They are watching.”


    I wanted to dispute his words. But I knew better than to try. Hengar had not just been my mother’s stablemaster, he’d been her spymaster, too. Behind his bluff exterior lurked a sharp mind, and to this day, he still maintained some of his contacts within Erast. Which explained his foreknowledge.


    I sighed. “What does it matter if they know? After today, I will be a Champion. That old ruling of theirs confining me to the city will no longer apply. Hells, as a Champion, I will be expected to leave the city bounds.”


    The four exchanged weighty glances, and Hengar shook his head. but what that signified, I couldn’t tell.


    “You are forgetting the Oath,” Marak said quietly.


    I frowned again. “The Champion’s Oath, you mean?”


    He nodded.


    “What about it?”


    Marak pursued his lips, for once appearing hesitant.


    It fell to Borin to fill in the blanks. “They fear you will abscond before giving the city your Oath.”


    “Abscond?” I asked incredulously. “You mean as in abandon my people?”


    The four nodded solemnly.


    I laughed. “I will do no such thing!”


    The tension eased out of the four.


    “Of course, I will pledge my allegiance to Staril. How could anyone expect anything less? But you four know as well as I do that the Staril Enclave Stone is lost. How am I supposed to do that?”


    Unexpectedly, my words caused the councilors to stiffen anew.


    My face tightened. “What is it?” I asked, seeing the growing alarm on their faces.


    Once more the four exchanged glances, and this time it fell to Elinor to explain. “Bael,” she said carefully, “we are in Erast.”


    My brows furrowed. “So?”


    “So,” she continued, “it is to Erast the city council expects you to give your allegiance. Not Staril.”


    I stared at her for a long moment, disbelief warring with anger, then growled, “No.”


    Borin sighed heavily, and I could also feel the others wanting to do the same. “Lad,” he said more gently than I expected, “do not forget where we are. On whose sufferance we live. If you refuse, it is not you who will pay the price.”


    I wanted to rail at the old dwarf, but I knew it was not his fault. “They have threatened to kick our people out,” I said. It was not a question.


    “Yes,” Hengar confirmed. “If you do not do as they ask and make your Oath on the Erast Enclave Stone, they will do just that.”


    My fingers curled into fists. “But why? Why do they care about my allegiance all of a sudden? Why, when they have done nothing but ignore me for the last twenty years!”


    “Because like it or not, you are a Staril,” Borin said bluntly. “And your line has power.”


    My face paled. The Champion Birth Marks passed down along familial lines, which made every Champion important not just as a weapon against the darkspawn, but also as a source of future Champions. Then, too, not all Champions were equal. Some could rise higher than others, and the Staril Family had always been known for producing mighty Champions. It was too bad I was the last of my line. But if Erast had its way, I wouldn’t be.


    “They will marry me off,” I guessed.


    Marak nodded. “Most likely.”


    “To whom?” I demanded, looking to Hengar and not the weaponmaster for answers.


    “There have been rumors,” he said vaguely, “but nothing concrete.”


    I stared hard at him, waiting for him to go on, but the stablemaster stayed steadfastly silent.


    “Erast may not be the greatest of allies, but they are our allies nonetheless,” Elinor interjected. “We can’t afford to disrespect their wishes entirely.”


    I rose to my feet abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, the sound jarring. “Respect? They don’t respect us. They tolerate us because they have to. Because of the bargain they made with my mother.”


    “That may be true,” Hengar said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of warning nonetheless. “But you can’t ignore reality. We are defenseless without Erast’s Champions.”


    “A third of whom are originally from Staril!” I protested.


    That was the betrayal that hurt the most. During the fall of Staril, my mother had freed the enclave’s Champions from their Oaths. It had stopped them from senselessly giving away their lives defending a dying city and, at the same time, allowed them to make their pledges anew to Erast. This was the bargain Reya Staril had struck. Staril’s Champions would become Erast’s, and in exchange, the city would see the ordinary people from Staril protected. But ever since the refugees had arrived at Erast, my mother’s Champions, the ones on whom she had depended on the most to protect her people, had abandoned their charges. Erast, too, had done the bare minimum to shelter the Staril refugees.


    Hengar shrugged. “That, too, is reality. What the former Staril Champions choose to do is beyond our control.”


    I turned away to pace along the hearth. “Enclave Law has failed us. The System failed us. It failed Staril. And now you want me to play by its rules? And make an Oath to Erast?”


    “Yes,” Marak stated bluntly.


    “Why?” I asked, swinging back around.


    “Because it’s the only way we survive,” Elinor said, her voice steady. “Because sometimes, you have to bend to stay unbroken.”


    I faced them, my heart pounding in my ears. What they asked felt like another betrayal. But not doing it would be a betrayal, too. “Say I take the Oath after my induction. What then?”


    Marak stood, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Then you become a Champion, and you do what needs to be done.”


    I laughed, the sound bitter. “And what is that? Patrol the borders? Close dungeons? For Erast?”


    “For the people,” Borin contradicted. “For our people, all of whom look up to you.”


    I shook my head, the weight of their expectations pressing down on me. “They look up to the memory of my mother, not me.”


    Elinor’s voice was soft but firm. “They look up to you because despite everything, you’re here, and they know in their hearts you will fight for them, just like your mother did. And they hope, just as they did twenty years ago, that a Staril will save them.”


    I turned away, my voice hollow. “Hope? I have no hope to give. I’m just a reminder of what we’ve lost.”


    “No,” Hengar said, his voice steady. “You are the promise of a fresh start.”


    Not responding, I walked back to the table and sat down. “How much time do I have before my induction?”


    “Seven hours, thirty minutes,” Elinor replied.


    I was not surprised at her precision. Elinor had been there when I’d been born, and knowing the importance of such, she had recorded the exact day, hour, and minute. My induction into the System would occur exactly twenty years later, to the very second.


    “Then let’s see to the ceremony.”


    “And your Oath?” Marak prompted.


    I looked at him bleakly. “We can discuss that after the ceremony.” But I knew in my heart that I would not—could not—deny their request.