21. Foundations #5
Surion hesitated before slipping into the seat beside him, his face pale, lips pressed into a thin smile that fooled no one. His hands fidgeted beneath the table, a sheen of sweat breaking across his temple, though he tried to mask it with forced composure.
Surin settled across from them, still silent.
His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes tracked every movement in the room with the precision of a strategist cataloging weapons on a battlefield.
The rest of the chamber followed Malec's lead, lowering themselves back into their chairs one by one, careful, tentative, as if even the scrape of wood on stone might provoke him.
Malec held the pause there deliberately.
Then, finally, he spoke. His voice cut through the chamber like steel sliding from its sheath. "The court summoned my Canariae."
Smooth, but threatening. It carried easily in the space, and even the torch flames seemed to lean into it. "She was summoned without my consent. Mockingly." His pale tan eyes slid to Surion, burning cold. "As if to provoke me. To rattle the leash."
Surion opened his mouth, a weak chuckle on his lips, but the force of Malec's stare was enough to choke the sound back down. His jaw snapped shut, throat bobbing as he tried to appear unfazed, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching against the gold thread of his robe.
Malec looked at each noble before him, rising slowly bracing both hands against the black stone of the table, his shadow stretching over those gathered like a storm cresting the horizon.
"And yes," he said, his tone dropping, thunder rolling in his chest. "The rumors are true.
" He paused, drawing the silence tighter. "She has given birth to my child."
The words detonated in the room. The gasps came all at once, like the chamber itself had been winded.
Chairs scraped harshly against stone as nobles leaned forward, eyes wide, lips parted.
Several papers were knocked from laps, forgotten instantly as voices broke out, hissing questions and hurried whispers. A child? From a Canariae? Impossible.
But Malec did not stop. His eyes glinted as his voice cut clean across the chaos. "A son."
The single word was enough to fracture the air itself. Nobles jolted as if struck. Whispers turned into shouts, mutters into full-throated disbelief. The impossible had happened: a hybrid child. A living heir.
Greed danced across their faces like candlelight.
Nobles from the oldest houses leaned into each other, lips pressed to ears, calculations spilling as fast as the words would leave their tongues.
The mathematics of power whirred in the room, schemes already born.
Some clutched goblets with white-knuckled fingers, others whispered blessings through their teeth, and more than one let slip a number—a price—already imagining what such a child could be worth if taken.
Surin remained motionless in his seat, watching the chaos unfold with clinical detachment.
He said nothing. Offered no confirmation but no denial either.
His stillness was a void in the room, drawing glances from those who expected him to speak, to shape the narrative as he always did.
But he only watched his son stand at the head of the table, and waited.
"Commander Malec," a noble called, his jade-green robes shimmering with stones meant to reflect power he didn't possess. His tone was reverent, but the hunger beneath it dripped like oil. "Surely, this is not a jest? You are certain the child is…half Awyan?"
Another voice, older, rasped from the far end of the table. The speaker was bent with age, her hair a silver sheet down her back, her voice brittle but her eyes alight with hunger. "This is a miracle, my lord. May we… may we see the child?"
And then another, eager, shameless, licking his lips as he leaned forward. "Do we know if this is singular? Or might there be… others?"
The room buzzed hotter, a fever of greed and awe, and still Malec said nothing.
He clasped his hands tighter behind his back, holding his tongue, letting them salivate.
He wanted them drunk on it and weakness bared, every ambition crawling across their faces where he could see it.
Only then would he bring the hammer down.
"I can confirm it."
Every head turned. Not toward Malec, but toward Surin.
The elder Awyan hadn't raised his tone, but his words dropped like stones into still water, rippling through the chamber until the murmurs broke around them.
He remained seated, perfectly composed, his long hands folded atop the table, his face unreadable.
"I was present at the birth," he said, each syllable steady, controlled, but heavy as lead.
"I saw the child with my own eyes. He bears my son's blood, Awyan ears, eyes the color of desert sand and even bears the Talandros coloring. "
He paused, letting that settle. Then continued, his voice carrying the same measured weight.
"And my grandson is a powerful psychic. With proven abilities I witnessed myself."
The chamber went deathly still.
Then erupted.
Nobles surged to their feet, shouting over one another.
"Psychic?"
"At birth?"
"Impossible!"
Chairs scraped violently against stone. Goblets crashed to the floor. Several advisors clutched at their chests as if the words themselves had struck them. Not just a miracle of conception, but a being of power they had never seen, never imagined could exist.
Fear rippled through the greed now. Because a child who could move minds was not just valuable.
He was dangerous.
"Enough."
He did not raise his voice; he had no need.
The single word carried the weight of law, and the room fell silent as if a blade had dropped.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the contract from the table one of the royal aides brought him and held it high enough for all to see.
His voice rang low, measured, each syllable struck like a war drum.
"Every council member will sign this before you leave this room. Union rights. Elevation status. Full titles. Legal protections. To my wife, Melodie Talandros."
A nervous ripple ran through the nobles. One dared to rise, his lips trembling. "Commander... surely this requires debate?—"
"Guards."
The command snapped through the chamber like a lash.
Malec's own men—specially trained silent soldiers that he had personally trained himself—moved as one, their boots striking hard against stone as they marched forward.
They positioned themselves behind every seated noble, hands already sliding to their blades.
Steel hissed faintly as swords cleared their sheaths, just enough to catch the light, just enough to promise death.
Not even the Imperial guards that were left outside dared enter that room.
The nobles stiffened. Faces drained of color. Some pressed back in their chairs as if the wood itself might shield them.
Malec leaned forward, setting the contract back on the splintered table, his hands braced on either side. His gaze was molten, merciless. "Any Awyan who refuses to sign will have their throat cut where they sit."
Silence.
Only the cold scrape of quills being lifted.
One by one, hands shook as they signed. Ink scratched across parchment like death warrants being written.
Some nobles signed quickly, eager to survive.
Others stalled, sweat dripping down their temples, until the pressure of a blade's kiss at their throat pushed the ink to flow.
An elderly councilwoman's hand trembled so violently she nearly tore the page.
A younger lord muttered prayers under his breath as he scrawled his name.
Another openly wept. But not one dared to oppose.
Because they all knew who the real king in this room was.
When the last trembling signature was pressed to the page, Malec reached forward and gathered the contract.
He turned it with deliberate slowness, his pale tan eyes scanning the neat rows of names.
Then, with measured quiet, he slid the parchment across the table to Surion.
The King's jaw locked. His hand hovered, reluctant, angry.
His eyes darted between his cousin's calm stare and the silent soldiers waiting for command.
Finally, with a muttered curse under his breath, Surion snatched the quill and signed his name. The scrape of his pen was focused, bitter, almost carved into the page.
Malec took the quill next. He scrawled his name cleanly and elegantly on the final line. Then he lifted the parchment and studied the ink for a long, quiet moment. At last, the corner of his mouth curved in quiet satisfaction.
Only one more signature was missing. Only hers.
He set the parchment down and folded it with precise, deliberate motions.
Each crease was exact, measured, the paper aligning perfectly along invisible lines only he could see.
When the contract was reduced to a neat square, he slid it into a small leather envelope he produced from his inner pocket, sealing it with the same careful attention.
Then he looked to the guards still poised with blades ready. "Stand down. You've done your duty."
They obeyed immediately, sliding swords back into their scabbards, returning to formation.
Malec tucked the leather envelope back into his pocket, turned from the table, and strode toward the doors. His boots struck marble with a predator's certainty, his cloak shifting like a shadowed banner behind him.
The doors slammed shut behind him with such force the glass chandeliers rattled overhead.
For a single heartbeat, the room held absolute.
Then the chamber exploded.