The moon hung low over Callis, a silver sentinel in a midnight sky. Torches flickered along the battlements of the royal palace, and within its grand walls, not a whisper of slumber stirred. Guards in polished mail patrolled every corridor; sentinels stood at every archway. The court, restless and wary, gathered in the throne room's cavernous stillness. Even the tapestries—woven with Callis's storied past—seemed to hold their breath.
A hush fell as four armored attendants ushered a solitary figure through the entrance. He was clad in robes of deepest midnight, his masked face half-shadowed beneath a hood. Wherever he passed, the royal guard formed a human barricade, blades crossing in silent warning. Yet the man walked unhurriedly, his gait confident, as though each footfall belonged to a king himself.
At the throne's base, King Noharis sat resplendent in his ceremonial crimson and gold, the weight of the crown pressing lightly upon his brow. Flanking him were Prince Thorne—his keen eyes alight with suspicion—and a ring of court advisers, each draped in the colors of Callis's venerable houses. The massive oaken doors swung shut behind the newcomer with a final, echoing boom.
The hood fell back. Black hair framed a masked pale, angular face. Varren stood before them, his coal-black robes embroidered in silver runes that glimmered like starlight. He inclined his head in a courtly bow that, while slight, carried the promise of contempt beneath the courtesy.
"Your Majesty," he intoned softly, voice low and smooth. "I come but to pay homage, as is proper."
A murmur rippled through the guards. Fifty swords had accompanied him—refusing to relinquish their weapons even under palace decree. The king's gaze narrowed.
"Honourable as that may sound," Noharis replied, "you bring half an army for a mere courtesy call. Explain yourself, Varren."
"Forgive my men," Varren said, raising a hand. "They are eager to swathe themselves in Callis's hospitality." His lips quirked in a faint, sardonic smile. "I meant only to meet with Your Majesty—to extend the respect of a visitor who has long admired your court."
Prince Thorne's hand drifted toward his sword. "You claim respect, yet your men bristle like a provocation."
The king raised a calming palm. "You speak too freely, son. Let him continue."
Varren's gaze flicked over the assembled court. "I am often asked if I am Calliot," he said. "By lineage, I am partly of the North, for my father was a merchant from beyond the Ranar Mountains—one who journeyed many realms before settling in Callis and marrying a Calliot woman." He paused, letting the words settle. "So, yes, I have one Callis vein running within me."
Thorne straightened. "Then you would know our customs. Why, then, did you not honour us with the customary two-knee bow?"
A cold light gleamed in Varren's eyes. "Which would you have, Your Majesty," he countered, "my knees or my grace?" At the challenge, the guards at his back unsheathed their blades in one fluid motion.
"Treason!" Thorne spat. "You mock a prince's courtesy and brand yourself our enemy!"
"Peace," Noharis intoned, his tone like tempered steel. "It is not easy to learn Court manners if one's tongue is foreign to our common speech." He leaned forward. "Speak your truth, Varren. Why have you come?"
The tension crackled like smoldering coals. Varren straightened his rippling cloak, drawing on the hush that fell. Then he began, voice rising with quiet intensity.
"You speak of Callis as a fortress of tradition and culture, and rightly so. But look to our neighbours—Mavros, for instance: the child who has forgotten his mother's face, so eager to cast aside old ways for the mirror-glass of new machines. They have forsaken the old gods for the ephemeral glow of invention."
He paced a slow arc before the dais. "And even Callis has strayed from the path. Your soldiers wear prayer beads, yet what prayer stirs beneath their chests? You have, like the rest of Thelos, abandoned the deities who shaped your forebears' hearts and guided their blades."
A court adviser whispered aside to Thorne: He speaks of Arkenza's desertion again. The prince's lips curled.
Varren anticipated the retort. "Do not think me blind to Arkenza's century-long neglect," he nodded. "But she was but one among many. There was Hobo, god of diligent toil; Mera, goddess of the harvest's bounty; Telithion, watcher of sailors' oaths—and the great Velmorr, god of grief, who reminds us that even joy must bow to sorrow." He let his voice soften. "I stand here to offer a return to that age: a renaissance of godliness, in which the divine once again walks among mortals."
King Noharis exchanged glances with his advisers, brows furrowed. Finally, he asked, "Why single out Callis? Is not all Thelos guilty of this forsaking?"
Varren turned, as if the question carved him from marble. "Charity must begin at home, Your Majesty. If Callis does not lead the resurrection of the gods, who shall? The task falls to those who value their heritage most."
The king leaned back, considering. Candles guttered in the silence.
"I will ponder your words, Varren," Noharis said at last.
Varren inclined his head. His gaze was ice. "Of course you will, great king. And know this: I bring you not betrayal, but the greatest ally you can wield—the favor of the gods themselves."
With that, he brushed past the guards and left the throne room as silently as a shadow. The doors parted to reveal the charged night air, and he vanished beyond their frame.
Prince Thorne exchanged a scowl with King Noharis. As the doors clanged shut, the young prince seized his father's sleeve.
"Father, may I speak plainly? We cannot trust this… this Northman's son. He wiped out the Ashen Order—an entire bastion of noble warriors—and now he demands our faith in gods we have long ceased to know!"
Noharis's expression was grave but patient. "My son, a wise king does not make enemies needlessly—especially not of one he cannot match in power. Varren controls forces beyond our ken. I would not risk plunging Callis into war with a single decree." He paused, eyes fixed on the candlelight dancing across the wall. "But you are right to be cautious. We will tighten our borders. No more random merchants—or would-be prophets—shall pass our gates unvetted."
Thorne nodded, though unease lingered in his shoulders. Around them, the corridors of the palace whispered with anxious courtiers. The moonlight, once a calm overseer, now seemed to shiver against the stones.
And beneath its pale glow, Callis awaited the dawn—uncertain whether it had secured an ally or invited a tempest upon its lands.