Chapter 233: The Council in the Dark
Chapter 232: The Council in the Dark
The cavern was cold and silent, its stone walls slick with moisture that seeped from the earth.
The air was thick and heavy, carrying the scent of damp rock and something older that none could identify. A single candle burned at the centre of the space, its flame small and wavering, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The light was weak but sufficient, revealing the forms of those who had gathered there—figures cloaked and masked, their faces hidden, their identities unknown.
It was night above.
The moon would be high over the capital, pale and indifferent, casting its silver light upon the sleeping city.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then a woman stepped forward.
Her cloak was dark, her hood drawn low. Her hands were clasped before her.
"The priestess is dead?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief.
The words echoed in the silence. Several of them shifted where they stood. A man near the back drew a sharp breath. Another woman turned her head sharply toward the speaker, her hood brushing against her shoulder with the movement.
Another woman stepped forward then.
Her voice was familiar enough that, perhaps, if Lyria had been present, it would have given away her identity. But Lyria was not present.
This woman spoke clearly, her tone matter-of-fact, as though she were reporting the weather rather than the death of someone who had been instrumental to their cause.
"I confirmed it with my own eyes," she said. "I went to the chamber as soon as I heard the news. She was gone. There was nothing anyone could have done."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
"Judging from her condition, she had been dead for at least a day and a half before H decided that the maids and guards should clean it up."
The cavern remained quiet. The candle flickered, casting brief shadows that seemed to leap across the walls.
"He requested that the body be burned. I suspect it was to get rid of the evidence," she added.
A man who had been sitting near the edge of the light uncrossed and recrossed his legs, his posture shifting as he absorbed the news. His cloak was dark, and his boots were visible beneath the hem, scuffed and worn, as though he had travelled a great distance to be there.
"I was not expecting that," he said.
Another man nodded from across the circle.
"No. I thought the priestess would survive at least until the competition was halfway through. Perhaps longer. She was resilient. Strong. I had hoped..."
He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Does this change things?" someone asked.
The speaker was a woman, her voice tight with uncertainty. Her gloved hands were clasped before her, and she seemed to be staring at the candle flame as though it might hold answers the dead could not give.
"Does her death alter the plan?"
"This changes nothing," a voice said. "The plan continues as it always has. The priestess knew what she was risking, and she accepted it long ago."
All eyes turned toward the centre of the cavern.
The man who stood there was tall and burly, his entire body cloaked from head to toe. The shadows seemed to cling to him more thickly than to the others, as though even the darkness recognised him as its own. His hood was pulled low, obscuring his features, but there was no mistaking the authority in his posture, the quiet certainty in the way he held himself.
When he spoke, his voice carried a slight accent—different from the clipped tones of the capital, rougher at the edges, shaped by a territory far from the palace walls.
He was undeniably their leader.
"The priestess knew she was going to die," he said. "We knew that. She had made her peace with it. But now that she is gone, we must do what we can to carry on her work. We must assist the princess in whatever way we are able."
"I met with her," the woman with the familiar voice said, tilting her head slightly, her hood shifting with the movement. "The princess, I mean. Earlier this evening, before... before everything."
She paused, as though the memory still troubled her.
"She looked distraught." She shook her head as a sigh slipped through. "I do not believe she has had any time to grieve. I heard she was summoned by the Queen shortly after she discovered the body."
A man sighed heavily from the shadows, the sound echoing faintly against the stone walls.
"The princess is going through a great deal," he said. "Is there nothing we can do to alleviate her pain? She is so young, yet she has lost so much already."
Another man shook his head slowly.
"The only thing we can do is help her become the Moon she is destined to be. Perhaps protect her from the shadows where we can. But it is still too early for her to know we exist. She is not ready for that truth."
"Would it not be better if she knew now?" someone asked. "If she understood that she is not alone, that there are those who support her, who believe in her, who would stand beside her if she only asked—would that not give her strength?"
The burly man shook his head.
"It is not yet time," he said. "I understand your desire to help her. I share it. Every person in this room wants nothing more than to see her succeed, to see her take her rightful place. But we cannot reveal ourselves so soon. If we act too quickly, we risk everything we have built."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the gathered figures.
"Besides," he continued, "she is not alone. Apart from us, she has the suitor candidates. Those who help her now, in her time of turmoil, will be the ones who stand beside her in the future. They will be the ones we acknowledge as the Sun and the rulers of this kingdom. We must let them earn their places."
A woman sighed.
"This is quite taxing for the princess," she said. "I hate that a girl so young must carry such weight. It is not fair. None of this is fair. But it is a burden she must bear, and we must let her bear it, even when it pains us to watch."
The candle flickered again.
