Chapter 270: Golden Arrogance, Summit of the Kings
Hawl grabbed the handles of the first cart and pushed it toward the doors. Novus followed with the second cart. They entered the sprawling royal kitchens.
The room was a chaotic blur of panicked activity. Dozens of cooks and servants rushed between massive stone ovens and preparation tables. Despite the frantic energy, the pantry shelves were completely bare.
Novus and Hawl parked the carts near the main butcher blocks. The cooks immediately swarmed the food, grabbing the meat and grain to begin preparation.
Novus stepped back against the wall, crossing his arms and watching the staff work. Hawl stood beside him, pretending to count the remaining inventory.
They listened to the frantic conversations echoing through the kitchen.
"The Morval kings are demanding three separate suites," a servant complained while scrubbing a large copper pot. "They refuse to share a wing with the Tarnstead nobility."
"They can sleep in the stables for all I care," an older cook snapped back, aggressively chopping a root vegetable. "They only came because Soros promised them access to the royal armory. The Morval Dynasty does not care about Tarnstead falling. They just want our weapons to defend their own borders against The Spiral."
Novus filed the information away instantly. The Morval Dynasty was prioritizing their own survival and lacked loyalty to Voranthar.
"What about Gildreath?" another servant asked nervously. "I heard the Vanguard is already slaughtering their western border."
"The Emperor of Gildreath arrived early this morning," the older cook replied in a hushed tone. "He is furious. He spent the last hour screaming at King Voranthar in the upper solar. He claims Tarnstead dragged the entire continent into this war by angering the foreign god. He is currently at his pavilion and will return to the summit later with other kings."
Novus smiled slightly.
The unified front was already cracking before the summit even officially began. Voranthar had gathered his allies, but the fear Rubedo cultivated was successfully tearing them apart from the inside.
Novus and Hawl lingered near the kitchen doors leading to the main courtyard. They pretended to review their merchant ledgers while watching the palace gates. The heavy iron portcullis groaned upward, signaling the arrival of the final guests.
The twenty remaining Heralds entered the courtyard.
They did not march in formation like the army behind them or show any respect for the Tarnstead guards. They walked with absolute arrogance. They wore custom-forged Aethelgard armor, heavily modified to flaunt their status rather than offer true protection.
Gold filigree and glowing mana gems adorned their breastplates. They laughed loudly among themselves, completely ignoring the starving servants watching from the periphery.
"Look at them," Hawl muttered, his eyes narrowing. "They lost half their continent and eight of their own kind, yet they strut like victorious gods."
"They rely entirely on their divine blessings," Novus observed. "They have never fought a war they could actually lose. They do not understand the reality of The Spiral yet."
The Heralds reached the steps of the grand hall. The heavy oak doors swung open to receive them. The sudden rush of air escaping the hall carried a suffocating, physical pressure.
The laughter of the Heralds instantly died.
Novus felt the change from across the courtyard. The ambient mana in the air grew terrifyingly dense. It was not the volatile, chaotic energy of the Heralds. This was a pressure, a crushing aura born from centuries of absolute rule.
The grand hall was not a meeting room for the kings, it was also an arena of pure intimidation. It wasn’t everyday when the emperors and kings of the entire continent would gather in one room.
At the far end of the massive chamber, the Emperor of Gildreath sat at the war table. He was a colossal man, easily matching Krax in pure physical width. He wore armor forged from overlapping plates of star-iron, emitting a low, continuous hum of contained energy.
Star-Iron possessed three distinct properties. One was Magical Nullification, making it highly resistant to spells and elemental attacks. When forged into weapons or armor, star-iron violently rejects and short-circuits enemy magical wards and enchantments on contact
The second property was Unique Density and Weight. It physically absorbed ambient light and was denser than steel, yet lighter than lead Because of its immense structural density, Rubedo compared its kinetic effectiveness in weaponry to depleted uranium.
And the third was Extreme Heat Resistance.
Despite all that, the star-iron plates on the Emperor of the Gildreath leaked his mana,
His mere presence seemed to warp the air around him, generating a gravitational weight that forced the Tarnstead guards to keep their heads bowed.
’He is the strongest in this room. He might even be the strongest in the entire continent,’ Nocus thought to himself.
To his right sat the three Kings of the Morval Dynasty. They wore identical robes of deep crimson silk. They did not project physical strength like the Emperor. Instead, a suffocating psychic dread radiated from their skin.
The shadows in the grand hall actively bent toward them, twisting and writhing across the marble floor as if trying to escape the light.
Voranthar sat at the head of the table. He looked small compared to the foreign rulers. The Tarnstead king appeared haggard, his golden crown resting heavily on his graying hair. Soros stood quietly behind him.
The twenty Heralds stepped into the hall. The psychic dread from the Morval kings immediately washed over them. Several of them visibly flinched, their hands twitching toward their weapons as the pressure attacked their minds.
The Emperor of Gildreath slowly turned his massive head to look at the Earthlings. His eyes burned with undisguised contempt.
"Are these the children who provoked the wrath of the foreign god?" the Emperor rumbled. His voice carried the physical force of a rockslide, echoing against the vaulted ceiling. "Voranthar, you summoned me across the continent, abandoned your outer kingdoms to slaughter, and risked my western borders... for them?"
Voranthar cleared his throat, attempting to project authority. "Emperor Kronos, the Heralds are the chosen vessels of our god. They are essential to our victory."
"They are arrogant children wearing stolen gold," Kronos spat. He slammed his heavy fist onto the war table. The star-iron gauntlet cracked the thick oak wood. "I lost three border fortresses this morning. Five hundred thousand beasts and men are marching through my southern swamps. You did not call a war council, Voranthar. You called us here to die with you."
One of the Heralds, a man wielding a glowing spear, stepped forward angrily. "We are the champions of this world. We will crush the Vanguard."
The Morval kings turned their heads simultaneously. Their psychic aura spiked violently. The Herald instantly dropped his spear and fell to his knees, clutching his head as a terrifying mental pressure crushed his thoughts.
"You will speak when spoken to, child," the center Morval king whispered. The voice echoed directly inside the minds of everyone in the room.
Novus watched from the kitchen doors, a slow smile spreading across his face. The summit was a disaster. The massive power disparity between the ancient rulers and the entitled Heralds was tearing the coalition apart before it even formed.
