Chapter 134: July 4th
The heavy doors groaned open, and a hush fell over the war council chamber. Every single beastkin delegate, from the smallest kobold to the largest ursarok, grew still. A moment before, the room had been a buzzing hive of anxious whispers and nervous fidgeting. Now, all eyes were fixed on the new arrivals.
Baron Silverfury entered first. He was not the towering ursarok of legend. His frame was ordinary, almost underwhelming for a bearfolk, and he wore practical, dark leather armor instead of the shining, decorative plate favored by many nobles. But his eyes—golden, burning faintly in the torchlight—made every person stiffen in their seat. Ruhk, still at the back of the chamber with the other new recruits, felt his throat dry. It wasn’t just a stare. Those eyes seemed to see beyond skin and bone, into the very core of a being.
Stories whispered around every firepit spoke of the Silverfury line. That their blood could strip away a man’s masks, lay his true nature bare. Some called it a divine gift. Others, a curse. Ruhk didn’t know which it was, but he knew the newest rumor, passed in hushed tones since the Hearthglen tragedy: that it was Baron Silverfury who had exposed the cultists at the alliance meeting, his gaze forcing them to reveal themselves just moments before the hall was swallowed in suicide flames.
At his side walked Lady Yulena. She dwarfed him, her mane-like hair glinting like a lion’s crown. Her shoulders were broader than those of most ursarok generals in the room. Even standing still, her presence was suffocating. It wasn’t the baron’s piercing judgment, but a crushing weight, like a predator whose fangs you could feel without seeing. The room shifted instinctively, men giving her a wide berth without even realizing they were doing it.
Despite the generals’ usual disdain for nobles, the Silverfury family was different. They did not revel in politics. They hated it as much as the soldiers did, seeing it as a corrupting force. And so the ursarok and lupen commanders rose to greet them, stiff but not hostile.
"Baron Silverfury. Lady Yulena." General Gorvak’s gravelly voice broke the silence. "We did not expect you here. We thought you would be with the others, debating in circles and accusing each other."
Baron Silverfury inclined his head. His voice was calm, measured, but every word carried a heavy weight. "I did not come to meddle. I came to warn you. The cult that shattered Hearthglen has not vanished. They move still—worse, they work with the orcs."
The chamber erupted in disbelief. Several generals cursed under their breath. A frogkin slammed the table with a webbed fist. "Impossible! The orcs barely work with each other, let alone with outsiders!"
Silverfury’s gaze swept over them. His eyes glowed faintly, and the protests died away into uneasy silence. "Impossible or not, it is the truth. Their motives remain hidden, but their reach grows. That meeting in Hearthglen... was only the beginning."
He paused, then continued, "I have seen your work here. You sustain yourselves without waiting for corrupt politicians to send rations that never arrive. You mine your own steel. You forge your own blades. You survive, while they debate in circles. For that, I commend you. And for that, my family will stand with you. Supplies, arms, whatever you lack—we will send it here."
A murmur of relief rippled through the generals. Support from the Silverfury family was no small offer. But then his next words dropped like a hammer.
"The Alliance cannot be mended. Not after this. Not after what has been revealed. It will collapse—if not today, then tomorrow. And when it does, it will drag the entire Spinebride region into ruin."
Shock froze the chamber. Even the most hardened generals had clung to hope that the Alliance, fractured though it was, could be salvaged. Now, hearing its death spoken aloud felt like a blow to the gut.
"What then?" croaked a frogkin general. "What are we to do, if not cling to it?"
"What choice do we have?" another added. "Without the Alliance, we’ll be picked apart tribe by tribe, race by race—"
Silverfury raised a hand, silencing them. "Not all noble families seek war. Many fear it as much as you do. But politics has rotted the heart of the Alliance. It was never built to last. Your soldiers have already proven you do not need them. So I say: declare independence. Cast off their chains. Create your own pact—an alliance not of politicians, but of warriors. Of those who live and die to guard the valley. Just as your grandfathers once did."
The chamber stirred uneasily. Some generals exchanged wary glances. Others sat straighter, a fire kindling in their eyes.
Silverfury’s golden gaze swept the room again. "Do you remember before the Alliance? When the orcs roamed unchecked? When they enslaved your kin, slaughtered your families, burned your villages? It was not nobles who saved you. It was unity. Beastkin stood together, not for power, not for titles, but for survival. That unity drove the orcs beyond the valley. That unity was bought with blood. And then—when peace returned—politics took root. What was built to defend became a game of control."
A heavy silence followed. Ruhk found himself shivering, not from fear, but from the weight of it. The baron’s words rang like iron struck on steel—harsh, but impossible to deny.
Silverfury’s voice hardened. "It was a mistake to ever let politicians command your swords. And now, their corruption is crumbling. Let it. This is your chance. Declare your independence, and forge a new alliance here. Not for crowns. Not for thrones. Only for the valley."
The chamber fell into a stunned silence. The generals looked to one another, torn between fear and the first flickers of resolve. And Ruhk, young recruit though he was, felt the ground shift beneath him.
The chamber was tense, generals muttering among themselves after Silverfury’s call for independence. One lupen general finally slammed his fist on the table.
"It sounds noble, Baron," he said, ears pinned back, "but you speak of unity while we bleed from within. Tell me, how do we even know who sits among us now? Who is a soldier, and who is a cultist waiting to burst into flame? If we cannot tell, your dream dies before it’s even born."
A murmur of agreement spread. Several frogkin generals croaked in unease, others scowled, their doubt turning into open suspicion as they glanced around the chamber. Even Ruhk felt his own fur prickle, realizing the same thought—what if one of them was a cultist?
Baron Silverfury was quiet for a moment, then reached into his cloak. From a hidden pocket, he drew out a palm-sized crystal, faintly pink, its surface cloudy until it caught the light of the braziers. Then it shimmered faintly, like something alive.
"This," the baron said, placing it on the table with deliberate care, "is my family’s legacy. It was my father’s, and his father’s before him. A crystal soaked in Silverfury blood. We call it the Oathglass."
The generals leaned forward, skeptical but curious. "It reveals mana in its true form. Peer through it, and you will see the world not as it looks, but as it is."
He gestured to the table. "Try it."
A scaled frogkin general snorted. "A parlor trick." Still, he picked it up, holding it to his eye. His smirk died instantly. His jaw worked wordlessly as he turned his head.
"What do you see?" a lupen general asked.
The frogkin general lowered the crystal slowly, staring at his comrades as though seeing them for the first time. "The air... it’s alive with blue motes. And you—" he pointed a webbed finger at the lupen beside him—"you have a glowing orb inside you. In your chest. It spins like... like a wheel."
The lupen blinked, then snatched the crystal for himself. One by one, generals tried it. Some gasped. Some cursed in awe. Others grew quiet, unsettled by what they saw.
Silverfury smiled faintly. "For most of us, our cores shine blue, the color of mana untainted. But a cultist..." He let the pause hang, his golden eyes glinting. "...their core burns red. Always red. It is the mark of their blood ritual. Once given, it cannot be undone."
The room fell still.
"They brand their very souls in loyalty to the cult," Silverfury continued, voice grim. "And that brand binds them. It drives them to suicide flames the moment they falter or betray a secret. That is why none lived after Hearthglen. It was no choice. It was compulsion."
He let the generals absorb his words before speaking again. "My family has guarded against such corruption for centuries. Every Silverfury must give their blood each moon cycle. With it, we craft crystals such as this—" he tapped the Oathglass gently "—not one, not two, but dozens across generations. Enough to arm watchposts, enough to pass to trusted allies when the need arises."
His golden eyes glinted. "So long as my bloodline stands, you need not fear the shadows among your ranks. The cult may weave lies and plant spies, but with this truth, their corruption can no longer hide. And with that truth, we can build anew."
Ruhk, watching from the back, felt his chest tighten. It wasn’t just a speech. It was a promise carved into blood and duty. And in that moment, even the new recruit believed the baron could make it real.