thief of fate-Chapter 63: union

Nilaris Island that land which belongs to no one, and no one dares to claim sovereignty over. The winds there come from all four directions, and the waters surround it. Atop a flat rock overlooking the sea, a small round table had been set, with three chairs around it... and three kings.

King Taril was the first to arrive. He sat without touching the table, his hands clasped on his knees, eyes fixed on the horizon. Not because the sea amused him, but because it gave him a chance to flee from his thoughts. When he heard soft footsteps approaching, he didn’t turn, but said in a composed tone:

"Elyria... I’m honored that you came."

Queen Elyria responded without sitting: "I’m not a coward, Taril."

He blinked. He wasn’t angry he was fully prepared to hear her say that.

"I didn’t mean that," he said calmly as he turned toward her, "but I was... afraid. Not for myself, but for my people."

She finally sat down, releasing a sigh as if emptying something repressed. "We are all afraid. But the difference is, some of us choose to face it, and others write letters."

"And would my soldiers have protected you?" he said with a tone that carried a hint of challenge, but gently.

Before she could reply, the third arrived.

King Yaram, calm as always, sat down without a word, looking at them both.

"Shall we begin, or are you waiting for a miracle to stop what’s happening?"

Elyria smiled despite herself, and Taril bowed his head respectfully.

"Let’s begin," he said.

"We’ve received confirmed reports," Yaram began, "about warriors of the Arkanis kind. Powers unlike any known arts. One of them wiped out an entire patrol without resistance."

Taril nodded. "Yes. And we found traces. Bodies... mutilated."

King Taril did not wish to reveal what had happened to him. Not today, when morale was essential.

Illyria crossed her arms, her voice calm but sharp. "That name has come up too many times. They’ve returned but how?"

She answered herself in a lower voice: "Or... why were they released now?"

Yaram leaned forward, as if probing her intentions: "You mean someone summoned them?"

"I mean this isn’t random." She looked at the sea for a moment, then added: "Nothing of this scale happens without a will behind it."

Taril felt a tightness in his chest. That idea hadn’t left him since the night that giant one arrived. But he said nothing.

Instead, he said: "We cannot face a threat we do not understand. We need information more than anything else."

"And where do we find the information?" Elyria asked.

"Maybe..." Yaram said slowly, "with those who fought the Arkanis and survived. There are some who survived the Arinval Mountains."

"Arinval Mountains?" Elyria said with disbelief. "Yes..."

Taril felt something strange. There was a thread tying everything together... but it was still invisible.

"What do you say?" he finally said. "That our first goal be gathering information. Forming a council of our experts and allies, away from everyone else."

Elyria laughed, but with a sad tone. "You’re asking me to trust, and I barely trust myself these days."

Yaram smiled, casting a look at both of them. Then he said quietly:

"We do not have the luxury of choice. If we do not cooperate, we’ll have nothing left to disagree over later."

Suddenly, silence fell.

It wasn’t an empty silence, but the kind that carries beneath it a thousand thoughts, and a thousand fears. The sea never stopped its murmur.

"So," said Taril, trying to end the silence, "let’s agree on the basics."

"First: we create a shared intelligence circle, collecting everything related to the Arkanis."

"Second: we recruit unconventional fighters, beyond the regular military system. Talents, mercenaries, even the outcasts."

"And third..." Yaram added, "we keep this cooperation secret. The enemy doesn’t know our borders yet let’s keep them blurred."

Elyria sighed, then said: "And finally, when we find the truth... we’ll decide how to reveal it to the world."

Another silence followed, shorter this time. It wasn’t a silence of doubt, but one of ideas crowding, looking for a practical form to what was just agreed upon.

"The fighters..." Elyria muttered. "You both know we don’t have the luxury of time to train an entire generation. Who will we choose? And on what basis?"

Taril nodded, eyes on the sea but listening with his whole being.

"That’s why we need to start filtering... quickly. To see what our people truly have."

Yaram slowly placed his palm on the table, then said: "And what do you think... of a tournament?"

Elyria raised her eyebrows.

"A tournament?" she repeated the word as if mocking, but there was curiosity in it.

"Yes," Yaram continued, his voice growing firmer, "an international tournament. We gather applicants from every continent, every kingdom. They come to one arena. We see who is worthy. Who amazes us. Who carries something different within them."

Taril looked at Yaram for a long moment, then murmured:

"And they think it’s just a competition... but in truth, we’re looking for warriors or leaders."

Elyria turned her head between them, then leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.

"And how much time do you think this will take? You can’t ask a teenager to become a warrior in a week."

"No," said Taril, "but you can see who has the spark. Who just needs fuel."

She fell silent. Weighing his words internally. Part of her thought the idea ridiculous more suited to children’s games in a time when everyone needed to be adults. But another part... saw it as a chance. For selection, not blind recruitment.

"And what about the conditions?" she asked. "Do we leave the door open to any stray?"

"No," said Yaram, "we need selection committees. Preliminaries. Early rounds within each kingdom. Then we filter the best and send them to the central arena."

Taril looked at the two, then said:

"We’ll make it an honor. An honor to be chosen. An honor to represent your people. An honor to compete before the kings."

And inside, he thought: better they believe glory awaits them, while we await them.

"And the arena?" Elyria asked.

"Arinval," said Yaram without hesitation.

Taril immediately turned to him, a hint of suspicion in his expression.

"Are you mad? There’s nothing left there."

"Exactly," Yaram replied, "that’s why we must restore its value. Let the tournament be the reason it’s revived."

Elyria pondered the idea.

If I am to sow seeds in a dying world... perhaps I should sow them in the soil that burned.

She said quietly: "And you, Taril, do you agree?"

He nodded lightly.

"Yes. But I want them watched by people I know. Not just trainers... but our eyes. Those we trust."

Then he added, his gaze tense as it lingered on the sea:

"And I want to see the one who fought... I want to understand why they stayed alive, while the others died."

Yaram nodded quietly, but his mind was elsewhere. Heroism would attract the Arkanis. They would come to watch... or to interfere. Was this a trap or bait?

If they came, they would be seen. If they didn’t, they’d fear whoever emerged from among the competitors.

"What about the prizes?" asked Elyria, suddenly.

The two looked at her in surprise.

"Yes," she continued, "if we want them to compete with all they have, they must know there’s something waiting for them. Power alone isn’t enough to attract the gifted... ambition is stronger."

Taril nodded in agreement.

"The winner... receives special training, royal supervision, and maybe... a recommendation to join the elite units."

"And a promise," said Elyria, "that they won’t be used as pawns."

The three fell silent for a moment.

As if the last sentence had struck a sensitive chord.

Pawns... How many of our people have we moved like stones, and dropped like dust?

Finally, Yaram stood up, then said:

"Let’s begin the first steps. We write the announcement. We send our envoys. And we prepare the field. The Continental Tournament... begins in two months."

Elyria rose, as if standing from an inner burden.

"One tournament... against the unknown."

Taril stood and said calmly:

"Let us hope that those we bring out of this tournament will be stronger than the creatures waiting for us."

The air grew heavier.

Not from the weather, but from the decision they had approached.

The three stood, without agreeing to do so, as if the moment itself had called them to rise. The sea was behind them, and the table that had gathered them now looked like an altar of decision.

Taril said, in a calm tone yet filled with resolve:

"We are not building an alliance for gain... but establishing something that will only live if it carries a single goal."

Elyria looked at him, a rare spark of respect in her eyes, though she did not voice it.

"Not an alliance for land, nor for glory... but for survival."

Yaram nodded, his voice low yet clear, as if placing a final seal:

"Our goal is one: the annihilation of the Arkanis."

"We keep this union hidden from the public," Yaram continued, "but we act together as if we were one nation. Our nation is whoever remains of humanity."

"And our enemies?" asked Elyria quietly.

"Anyone who tries to exploit this danger for their own gain, protects the Arkanis, or bargains with them," said Taril without hesitation.

His heart beat with something like guilt, but he would not let it speak.

Yaram extended his hand to the middle of the table.

There were no emblems, no papers. Just a hand bearing a decision.

Elyria looked at the hand, then extended hers as well.

"If any of us betrays this pact..." she said, "no excuse shall be granted again."

Taril was the last. He placed his hand over theirs.

"Our union has no name. But it lives as long as we believe in the reason for its existence."

Then they each stepped back.

Elyria was the first to leave, bidding no farewell. Her cloak fluttered as she walked toward the small ship waiting for her, her guards clearing the path, but she did not look back.

I must be the first to prepare the competitors. If we are to survive... then let the first chosen be from my people.

As for Yaram, he lingered a moment longer. He quietly stepped down to the sand, picked up a handful, gazed at it, then let it slowly fall.

All that we plant today must bloom before the coming winter... or there will be nothing left to bury.

He mounted his horse, waiting on the shore. No guards, no procession.

Taril remained alone for a few moments. He sat once again on the chair, gazed at the sea. Something inside him was screaming.

If we fail... then everything I’ve done will be meaningless.