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Cataclysm War | Chapter 49: Looking to the Future (First Draft)
🕑 Added 2026-01-15 23:00:06 +0000 UTCSaturday, July 30, 4 S.E.
Synthra idly toyed with her nail as she sat in Ceruviel’s expansive meeting chamber, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs surrounding the rectangular table the Duchess used for important gatherings. Aylar sat at the head of the table, with Ceruviel and Uriel on either side of her, and a motley collection of individuals descending from there.
Mithrander was immediately beside the Duchess, with Synthra somehow opposite the elder Haelfar, who she found to be a mix between intimidating and somehow grandfatherly. Beside her was Bardulf, with Parnym opposite him and beside Mithrander, looking decidedly unsure if he should even be there.
Both Mernyn and Leona each occupied a seat as the Queen’s Royal Guard Lance-Masters, followed by several more Lance-Masters from the Duskguard, and one from the Dawnguard—Verity Durandal, who looked laudably at ease despite the occasional skeptical glance she received from the Duskguard.
None of Aylar’s actual Royal Council were in attendance, but that was unsurprising given the nature of the meeting—it was a martial council, not a political one.
“{...the dangers posed by Prince Braedon’s loyalist element,}” Leona was saying carefully, her words measured but certain. “{While we can hope, optimistically, that the contest between the Earl and the Prince ends the issue decisively, we cannot be sure that the traditionalist hardliners will simply accept the result.}”
A round of terse nods followed her words, and Mithrander spoke next, his elderly comportment giving way to a surprisingly deep, powerful voice.
“{Eldormer blood is carefully monitored, Your Majesty,}” the Seneschal said steadily, “{but that is not an exact science. Your ancestors had quite the proclivity in some cases, and bastard lines are not an absent possibility among the higher nobility. It is possible that one or more of them could declare legitimacy to try to steal your throne.}”
Ceruviel sighed at the elder’s words, but not in disrespect, and Synthra watched her surrogate Aunt shake her head as she waved a hand idly.
“{There is a point where precedent becomes punitive, Your Majesty,}” the Dusk-Lord stated on the heels of Mithrander’s words, her voice hard-edged. “{If opportunists do try to weasel their way in, that is what I am here to handle. There are many countermanding precedents relating to Royal Ascension, and as an Archon, my authority to enact those precedents is immutable.}”
Synthra smiled faintly at that, imagining exactly what sort of enactment the Duchess was thinking of, and turned to Uriel instinctively.
As expected, the Dawn-Lord let out a quiet sigh.
“{We cannot have you rampaging through the Aristocracy like sport, Ceruviel,}” the Duke of Morning said with his usual calm, unruffled patience. “{Her Majesty will need the nobility to ensure stability during her reign, even with our support. The wheels of commerce and the gears of infrastructure depend on their [Aetherium] and the goods they inject into the economy. Not even the Royal Reserve can take on that burden. Nor can ours.}”
Ceruviel let out a ‘tsk’ at the statement, but for a wonder, simply waved her hand in annoyance and folded her arms, looking faintly irritable at the iron logic. Synthra suspected the Duchess had set up that moment for the Duke, to make him say what she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
“{There are other considerations,}” said Verity Durandal carefully, drawing more than one pair of skeptical eyes to her when she spoke. “{If I may, Your Majesty?}”
Synthra glanced at Aylar when she smiled warmly and motioned with her left hand, bearing Achilles’ ring, to continue, and Synthra swallowed the instinctive bite of envy that the sight aroused within her. She was happy for Aylar. They’d both known that the future Queen had to be his first bride, to avoid any chance of public declarations of inferiority for her position, but the woman inside of Synthra still faintly bristled at it.
The most primal part of her draconic nature lusted after that primacy, but that was something she’d learned to handle during the Rite.
The trials had given shape to many possibilities, and the memory of her kiss with Aylar made her blush faintly as she turned to Verity.
“{There is an unorthodox alternative to simply accepting the Aristocracy’s nature,}” the Dawnguard Lance-Master said carefully, keeping her bold green eyes focused entirely on Aylar. “{The power of the traditionalists, speaking from experience—}” that earned a few smirks around the table from the Duskguard “{—comes from their lack of diversity. The Aristocracy of Dawnhaven, Your Majesty, is comprised almost entirely of Alteran Haelfenn. Even the few Nyrfenn among its number are Fenn-blooded to some extent, and they gravitate toward the Haelfenn by nature.}”
Synthra blinked at the woman’s words and turned toward the head of the table, looking first at Aylar, and then at Ceruviel—whose reaction hammered home that something was coming. The Duchess looked positively gleeful.
“{Thereby,}” Verity continued after a moment of thought, “{wouldn’t the ideal solution be to weaken the Aristocracy’s ability to pose an issue at all, in the long-term and short-term both?}”
The table murmured at her words, but it was Aylar who spoke, silencing the murmurs when she did.
“{Please elaborate, Lance-Master Durandal,}” the Queen-Potentiate said graciously, her blue eyes faintly aglow as she considered the words.
“{If the issue is concentration of like-minded power, Your Majesty, then you simply need to dilute the similarity in mindset,}” Verity explained calmly, her green eyes darting around the table. “{The isolation of the Haelfenn noble houses is what precipitated their unification behind Braedon. Thereby, instead of trying to break that line in the sand, you simply need to kick it apart. As Princess-Royal, your hands were tied, but as Queen, you have the power to do that: to elevate new nobles. Nobles that won’t be so easily corralled by the influence of Alteran histories and cultural precedents.}”
Ceruviel abruptly barked a laugh at the suggestion and slapped her armored palm onto the table, drawing a mix of amused and bewildered glances from several of the Lance-Masters. The Duskguard seemed largely used to her outbursts, though the Royal Guard and Uriel were seemingly less enthused—though in the Dawn-Lord’s case, it seemed more like long-suffering acceptance of eccentricity to Synthra’s eyes.
“{Terran Nobles,}” Ceruviel said with a wicked grin, “{the mad woman is suggesting Terran Nobles!}”
“{I—I apologize, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to—}”
Ceruviel waved a hand to dismantle Verity’s stammered apology, laughing again.
“{Oh, Divines, no, it’s perfect! Perfect!}”
Ceruviel turned to Aylar, who had endured her outburst with envious poise.
“{This is what needs to happen,}” Ceruviel said firmly, her gaze fixed on the new Queen. “{This, this is how you defang those pompous sycophants and shake things up. Terran nobles! What a marvelous idea.}”
Aylar’s gaze shifted from Ceruviel and met Synthra’s eyes, and the Sorceress understood why immediately. The first trial had shown them the result of that move, in painfully clear terms, and she intrinsically felt the hesitation in her friend’s azure gaze. They both knew the outcome if they did not handle the suggestion with care.
“{It is not a terrible notion,}” Mithrander said, his voice quiet without being soft, and his wise features taking up a thoughtful guise. “{However, if you are to do this, Your Majesty, you will need to make concessions,}” the Seneschal continued, and his words spiked an immediate alarm in Synthra when he did.
“{The Aristocracy will want assurances of continuance in some form or another. You must court them, still, to an extent. With your pending marriage to Earl Latherian, it would not be imprudent to consider ratifying things in the Alteran way—an assurance of some manner of consistency, as it were.}”
Synthra’s heart stuttered as her mind moved back to the first trial, to the throne room, to the declarations of powerlessness from the chained Terrans. Horror gripped her as the memories of that life, of every step toward that inevitable conclusion, roared through her consciousness, and she turned to Aylar.
“{They will want to know that their traditions are not being forgotten,}” Mithrander was saying as she distractedly heard him. “{It would be opportune, perhaps, if your future husband were given a more martial role in the nation, while day-to-day governance remained in the hands of Your Majesty’s own—}”
“{NO!}” Synthra said abruptly, slamming her hand against the table as her heartbeat thundered within her chest.
Eyes snapped to her across the table, and the Seneschal blinked once in surprise, arching a grey eyebrow without judgment. Before anyone could speak, however, Synthra forged ahead—fuelled by insight and terrible knowledge.
“{No, that cannot happen. If we set a precedent of Alteran primacy on Terra, it will never end. The Queen will never be able to reverse it, and it will haunt the Kingdom for its entire life. We cannot allow that to happen.}”
Mithrander raised his other eyebrow to join his first, and his expression faintly shifted into one of empathetic understanding.
“{I understand your concerns, dear girl, but the reality of our political—}”
“{Synthra is correct,}” Aylar said abruptly, silencing Mithrander as the eyes at the table turned from the Sorceress to the Queen, and Synthra let out a ragged breath of relief. “{In the Rite of Ascension, we received many visions of wisdom, of possibility, and of future events,}” Aylar continued, her voice morphing from warm understanding into steely conviction. “{One such future was precisely as you describe, Elder Mithrander. While the merits of your suggestion, at a glance, are unassailable—I have insight, as does my Party, of where that future will lead. The consequences are not acceptable.}”
“{But Your Majesty,}” Mithrander said gently, “{the visions you received are not set in stone. If we handle the matter appropriately, I am sure we can avoid any unpleasantness.}”
Aylar let him finish when he began, but shook her head shortly thereafter.
“{No, honored Elder. I value your wisdom and your counsel more than words can describe, but no, I am afraid I will not be moved on this. There can be no illusions of what will happen after the Challenge is completed, and my intended defeats Braedon,}” the Queen said firmly, her eyes shifting from Mithrander to those along the table. “{Leonidas will not be a figurehead, and he will not be just my Sword-Arm. It is my intention, and let me say this directly so it is understood, that the man I have taken as my husband will not be second to my authority.}”
Silence descended upon the table, and Synthra’s heartbeat steadied as she realized what Aylar was going to say before her friend ever uttered the words.
“{Leonidas Achilles Romulus Paendrag will be King,}” Aylar said to them simply, her voice emphasizing the word. “{Not in name, not in principle, but in truth. My husband-to-be will lead this Kingdom, with me at his side, as my mother was at my father’s.}”
Silence met her words, and finally, it was Mernyn who spoke, the Royal Guard Lance-Master’s voice level despite the profound nature of her statement.
“{Your Majesty, your intended is a great warrior—potentially one of the most powerful future Cultivators I have ever observed,}” the Haelfar said with what Synthra considered laudable awareness. “{But he is not Alteran, and he is not a scion of House Eldormer. Your Father, the King, was both those things. To compare them is—}”
“{Do you know what my Father’s Ambition was, Lance-Master?}” Aylar cut in, her voice steady.
A moment of confusion rippled around the table, and Synthra noticed more than one face rife with uncertainty. Only Ceruviel, Uriel, Bardulf, Parnym, and herself seemed unsurprised. She knew where this was going and directed a firmly supportive nod to Aylar, who flickered a smile in response before refocusing on Mernyn.
“{Of course, Your Majesty,}” the Lance-Master answered eventually. “{It is well-known that your Father possessed the High Noble Ambition. It is what made him such a singularly fit ruler. A higher Ambition has not been seen in your line for millennia, not since your founding Ancestor.}”
Aylar smiled, briefly, at the Haelfar’s words and leaned forward, her hands clasping in such a way as to display the ring that affirmed her engagement.
“{And do you know my intended’s Ambition, Lance-Master?}”
The Royal Guardsman hesitated and then shook his head.
“{Other than the Duke and Duchess, and my Party, do any of you know his Ambition?}”
Another round of hesitation followed, and Synthra watched the faces at the table as they, one by one, shook their heads. Only Mithrander stayed still, his ancient brow furrowed, until Synthra saw a flicker of shock cross his features and he looked up.
“{Surely not, Your Majesty,}” the old Haelfar said suddenly, his voice cracking slightly from surprise. “{It can’t be. It’s not been seen since—}”
“{You are correct, Seneschal,}” Aylar said gently, her words putting Mithrander quietly back in his chair with a soft sigh of defeat, his hands folding on themselves in a tacit expression of resigned acceptance. “{For those that have not made the connection to his [Knight Oath],” the Queen continued, “{I will make it clear: my intended, the Archon Leonidas, possesses the rarest Ambition in the System’s history.}”
The tension that followed her words was palpable, and Synthra could see hands tightening where they rested on the table, every gaze fixed on Aylar with a mix of dread, caution, and—in a surprising turn—even some echoes of hope. Those came from the Duskguard and, more shockingly, Verity herself.
“{Leonidas Achilles, the man I have taken for my future husband, is the first Cultivator in millennia to possess the Ambition of Sovereign,}” Aylar informed them finally, her words brooking no denial. “{He is not simply the man I will marry, my lords and ladies: he is the man that will shape the future of this entire world.}”
Silence settled on the table following that pronouncement, and Synthra let out a ragged breath when Aylar made the statement. It was massive, larger than any individual, and carried a weight that had not left the air since its delivery. For some time, as she watched, nobody spoke—be it out of inflective consideration, shock, satisfaction in Ceruviel’s case, or simply coming to terms with reality; none seemed ready to break the peace that settled after the Queen’s intent was laid bare.
Finally, perhaps appropriately, it was Uriel who broke the peace.
“{What of the Earl’s thoughts on this matter?}” the large, golden-armored Duke asked calmly, his radiant gaze affixed on Aylar. “{It is well and good to speak of these things, Your Majesty, and I am personally of the opinion that the Dusk-Lord’s Squire has the merits and singular experience to justify his Ambition—}” Synthra wasn’t the only one to react to that with surprise, as evidenced by the murmurs around the table—though once again, Ceruviel simply looked smug “{—in theory, but what of his heart? Have you consulted your intended on what he intends?}”
Before Aylar could answer, the sound of footsteps cut through the air, and Synthra turned with the others as Achilles himself strode into the room, accompanied by the prowling shadow of his blue-eyed companion, the one Synthra recognized as his sister, Kairi. The Sorceress’ golden eyes appraised the younger Paendrag for a moment, for once not indulging her desire to enjoy Achilles’ appearance, and she noted the way she stood with him—confident, calm, but subtly alert; her eyes searching the room for threats without even being asked.
That one is far more dangerous than he is, Synthra assessed quietly. She would slit our throats the second she believed us a threat to him.
“{My lords, my ladies,}” the Terran Archon said as he entered, his eyes falling on Synthra with a smile that made her heart skip when she spied it, and then finally settling on Aylar in a way that turned the skip into a soft ache. “{The Lord of the Dawn’s concerns lack not in merit, and nor do they possess an absence in poignant focus. Thus, from this auspicious moment, I shall endeavor to make mine perspectives inarguably transparent.}”
Synthra raised her eyebrows, faintly amused still by his archaic Haelfennyr, and glanced at Aylar as the Queen’s cheeks flushed with happiness at his arrival.
Good, she should be happy, Synthra thought decisively. She deserves this.
The thought warred with her deeper-seated envy, but she meant every word.
“{You have something you wish to say, my intended?}” Aylar prompted him, her lips unable to help forming a pleased smile.
“{I do,}” the Terran replied, turning to his sister briefly, and then assuming a parade rest. “{Though I must, with all sincerity, warn against the tumultuous nature of my declaration, for I fear the reception of its arduous intention shall merit a profaned reaction, Your Majesty the Queen.}”
Synthra blinked once at his words, and then subtly raised her eyebrow while looking at Ceruviel, who was staring at her Squire and Heir with something approaching genuine surprise, even before he’d said a word.
“{By all means, Sovereign,}” Mithrander said without mockery, the Elder’s eyes focused on Achilles with what Synthra interpreted as genuine reassessment, even mild approval. The pronouncement of such an Ambition was not a thing to be taken lightly—especially for Alterans, who viewed the System’s judgment as nigh unimpeachable. If the System decided Leonidas could be a Sovereign, the Alterans would, by their very nature, accept it as fact.
“{My thanks, Honored Elder Mithrander,}” Achilles said calmly, and moved forward, walking until he stood next to Aylar and could reach down, taking her left hand in his right and gently squeezing it—much to the blushing Queen’s delight.
“What I have to say, I will say in English,” Achilles stated as he came to a halt, and his sister moved to calmly plop herself down at the other end of the table, opposite Aylar, with a look that almost dared someone to say something. Other than Ceruviel’s chuckle, nobody did. The way she moved spoke volumes. Synthra had seen it already in the entrance hall.
Elite Rank, possibly higher. She is the most powerful person here after the Regents.
“My intention is to rule as King, alongside my future bride, not because I wish to—frankly, the idea of being a King makes me want to throw up,” Achilles said in his honest manner, drawing more than one look of empathetic understanding from the table. “But because, after the Rite, after discussion with our Party, and after extensive discourse with my reticent younger sister—”
All eyes glanced from the Party members to Kairi, and there they lingered as the auburn-haired Terran smiled at them in a way that seemed sweet, but very intentionally bared her teeth.
“—regarding the state of affairs in Dawnhaven, I have come to a conclusion some of you may find extreme.”
Here, the attention snapped back to Achilles, including Synthra’s own, and she quietly noted Ceruviel watching him like a hawk—her hands tensed on the table, lips in a thin line. Not displeasure, perhaps, but certainly a reaction to something he’d yet to say.
“Dawnhaven cannot continue as it has, because you have forgotten something—all of you, from the most benevolent to the most selfish. All of you have forgotten something important: you are no longer on Altera. This world is not the one you came from. Our future cannot be dictated by the culture you bring with you.”
Tension ratcheted up at his words, but Synthra noticed that of all those present, Uriel and Mithrander alone seemed calm—in the Dawn-Lord’s case, a look of quiet surrender filtered across his features, as if he had expected this, while Mithrander’s looked like he was preparing to greet the strike of a hurricane: acceptance of the inevitable.
“Leonidas?” Aylar asked simply, her own expression momentarily wary. “What are you saying?”
“I wanted to talk to you about this first, privately,” Achilles responded more gently, shifting to look down at her, “but present circumstances robbed me of the chance. Once we are done here, we can speak more about the details, okay?”
Aylar stared at him for a moment, hesitated, and then nodded—smiling the smile of a woman who trusted in intent, more than words alone.
They are good for each other, Synthra thought in satisfaction. He is a hurricane, but she is the calm in the eye. I wonder, then, what will be my role…
Her thoughts trailed off, squashing the memories of the trials as Achilles spoke once more.
“Dawnhaven must evolve,” the Terran declared as he looked back at them all. “This nation, this Kingdom, must evolve. It cannot be what it once was, and to that end, my intent is simple—”
“Achilles! You cannot—” Ceruviel interrupted, halfway rising from her chair, before Uriel’s fist snatched her arm and froze her mid-statement. The Dawn-Lord’s golden gaze met her lavender one, and Uriel just shook his head, once, with denial.
“{This is as it must be, Ceruviel,}” he said to his counterpart softly. “{You cannot control everything, and we cannot fear what we ourselves have consented to unleash. It is time, Ceruviel. You have to remember what he is.}”
Ceruviel hesitated, glanced at Achilles—who met her look with a small, understanding smile—and then thunked back into her chair, lifting her armored hands and rubbing her temples as she muttered “Go ahead, Achilles,” in English.
“Thank you, Mentor,” Achilles said gracefully, and then proceeded. “As I was saying, my lords, my ladies, the future before us must be shaped by evolution, not by the past. Thus, my intent is simple: Dawnhaven shall be the seat of this Kingdom, but this Kingdom will not be another copy of Eldormer.”
Murmurs rose again at his words, but all eyes were locked on the Archon as he spoke, for the first time, like the Sovereign he had been destined to become. It was, in a word, enthralling. The mutters died quickly after they appeared as he continued.
“This Kingdom will have a Haelfar Queen and a Terran King; its future rulers, my ch-children with Aylar—” he only slightly stumbled over the word, and aroused a deeper blush from the Queen in the act “—will be of mixed blood, and so we cannot live a fantasy. We cannot deny where we are. What we must become.”
Achilles looked down at Aylar, bent, and kissed her hand before continuing.
“My proposal is simple… I will shed the name of Paendrag, Aylar will shed the name of Eldormer, and together we will forge a new Royal Lineage; and from its birth, usher in the dawn of a new age for our homeworld.”
The shocked silence that greeted his words lasted for all of two seconds.
When the explosion came, Synthra couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity.
Comments
Peter Baird
Thereby, instead of trying to break that line in the sand, you simply need to kick it apart. - should be Therefore, …
Mr Exar Kun
Tftc
Dominick Ruiz
Tftc
Hannibal Forge
Heh. Liked it, I take it?
Ser_Slothicus
BAHAHA
Hannibal Forge
More than a few, I think.
Hannibal Forge
It's up!
Kaywye
Hehe. Audacious. And perfect. It solves many of the problems on their plate right now...and I assume will put other new problems in their way.
Drake_Soul
Looking forward to the reactions to this declaration
Hannibal Forge
You are welcome!
Hannibal Forge
30 Minutes!
Hannibal Forge
You are right!
Hannibal Forge
You will not be disappointed.
Durabler
I hope to god the next chapter continues this conversation because I need the realization of this revelation like yesteryear
Rad
Politics. Amirite or amirite
scrombles
Post! Post! 😆
Quentin Cozzi
Thanks for the chapter!
