Black Peaks Region, Kürdiala – Evening, Year 7002 A.A.
Kürdiala unfolded before them like a secret remembered.
The city thrived at the edge of the impossible—an oasis of precision and pulse carved from the ruthless heart of the Black Peaks. Sandstone walls blushed amber beneath the dying sun, their geometric carvings etched with reverent hands across generations. Domes crowned rooftops like celestial mirrors, their gold-inlaid mosaics catching the fading light and scattering it in fractured halos. Vines of desert ivy slithered across stone bridges that spanned alleyways like veins—feeding, connecting, surviving.
The air shimmered with the spice of life. Cinnamon. Saffron. Toasted grain. Shouting vendors competed with playful laughter, children sprinting between them barefoot, wild-eyed and free.
The ArchenLand survivors moved slowly through it all, their sand-caked bodies stiff with disbelief. Some wept quietly. Others clutched their children tighter, unsure if the joy was real.
Trevor nudged Kon as they passed a cluster of Kaplan Tracients—leopards in artisan's garb, some haggling with jewelers, others laughing around a spit-roast stand.
"Looks like your clan's been thriving," he murmured with a half-smile.
Kon said nothing. His single eye lingered on the spotted warriors, the copper earrings, the comfortable ease in their posture. He felt no warmth—only distance. These were his people by blood. But not by fire.
They hadn't lived through ArchenLand's fall.
Not through the blood and screams and sky cracking open.
A woven toy ball skidded to Adam's feet. He paused, blinking down. A badger cub froze nearby, eyes wide, small hands curled tight.
Adam crouched, robes folding like dusk. He picked up the ball and turned it over in his hands, then looked to the cub. "Don't lose it again," he said softly, his glacial voice almost warm.
The child beamed, giggling, and scampered away.
Trevor stared after them, a rare tenderness on his brow. Still in there, Kurt, he thought.
Kon caught the moment too. His tension eased. A flicker of something fragile stirred behind his eye.
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Ekene Çelik, Hand of the King, led them to Kürdiala's heart—a temple-fortress that seemed carved not built, its archways flanked by stone panthers poised mid-pounce. Their obsidian eyes followed each step.
The air cooled as they descended. Violet runes throbbed faintly on the walls, their light alive with memory. The stones whispered of old things—agreements forged in blood, monsters buried in pact, names never spoken twice.
"Ain't natural," Jeth muttered, squinting at the glyphs. "Light with no flame… heat with no sun... damn desert sorcery."
Kon brushed a claw across a carving: a panther curled around a serpent in eternal stalemate. "These aren't decorations. Kaplan wards. Protective lines drawn during the Old Purge."
Ekene said nothing.
The throne room stole their breath.
Water cascaded down three walls in curtains of liquid starlight, obscuring rune-etched stone beneath. The air shimmered with mana, not oppressive, but... aware. Two crystal monoliths flanked the throne—each three men tall, carved from solid violet mana.
They pulsed. Not with beauty. With presence.
"Incredible…" Kon murmured, unable to tear his gaze away.
Trevor's tail twitched. "What are those?"
"Mana Crystals," Daruis said, voice hushed. "Unrefined. Untapped. One this size holds more power than a city's leyline. Melt one? You'd need the sun at war with itself."
Kopa approached, sensing. "The resonance... it's too stable. These aren't just for defense."
"They're alive," Adam said, eyes narrowing.
Then the voice came—low, unhurried, final.
"You like my throne room?"
They turned.
Upon the throne sat a feline Tracient, his fur a swirling tapestry of storm-black and winter-white, as if midnight had devoured snowfall. His violet eyes glowed, but dimly, as if out of choice. No crown. No scepter. Just a presence that stilled the room.
His robe was simple. Midnight-blue. Loose around the shoulders, tied by a sash of braided silver thread. He didn't rise. He didn't need to.
Adam's stomach clenched.
I can't sense his mana. Not at all. Just like the hooded one. Just like... Jarik. But this wasn't concealment. This was... erasure.
Ekene stepped forward and bowed, deep. "My Lords, I present King Azubuike Toran, the Black Panther, ruler of Kürdiala."
He gestured to the group. "Lord Kopa Boga. Lord Jeth Fare. Lord Kon Kaplan. Lord Trevor Maymum. His Majesty Adam Kurt of Narn. And His Majesty Daruis Boga of ArchenLand."
Toran's eyes locked onto Adam. Neither blinked. Violet met glacial blue. Silence buzzed.
Then Toran spoke, not to Ekene, but to the Lords.
"What do they want?"
Daruis stepped forward, his posture regal despite the exhaustion etched into every fiber of his golden-furred body.
"I invoke the Pact of the Narn Lords," he said. "Our home is lost. Our people scattered. We ask for sanctuary."
Toran's gaze darkened. "On what grounds do you invoke it?"
Daruis hesitated.
"Kinship," he began.
The air broke.
Power slammed into the room like a falling god. Not force—presence. The weight of authority made manifest.
All six Lords dropped.
Daruis collapsed to one knee, his hooves buckling. Kon gasped, one hand splayed to catch himself. Trevor hit the floor, staff clattering beside him. Jeth's hat flew off, eyes wide with panic. Kopa crumpled with a grunt. Even Johan, silent in the back, staggered, tail whipping as he fought the impulse to flee.
The throne did not rise.
It simply was.
Toran's voice tore through the silence.
"Do not speak to me of kinship," he thundered. "Where was your kinship when my ancestors fled the burning coast? When Kürdiala was nothing but dust and starvation? ArchenLand gave us nothing. Narn gave us silence. No Lords came. Not one—save the Last First Grand Lord."
Adam felt it too—not weight, not mana—but a shattering internal terror.
My body isn't responding. My soul feels like it's being watched.
And yet...
He rose.
Slowly. One foot. Then the next. His hands trembled. His blue fur stood on end. But he stood.
Ekene twitched, shock rippling across his golden eyes.
Even Toran's brows lifted—slightly.
Adam's voice shook, but he spoke. "You said one Lord came. Only one. The Last First Grand Lord of Narn. That was my father. That was Lord Abel Kurt"
The silence cracked like old stone.
"You knew him," Adam said. "So I ask—not as King of Narn—but as his son. On that ground, I invoke the Pact."
Toran said nothing. For a long moment, the room felt like it would snap in half.
Then he exhaled.
And the pressure vanished.
The Lords gasped, coughing, panting, gathering their balance.
Daruis blinked in disbelief.
Toran rose. "Ekene," he said, voice even now. "See them to their quarters. Treat them as Lords."
Ekene bowed. "Yes, Majesty."
Toran's eyes returned to Adam. "You. With me."
He turned and stepped through the rear waterfall, the curtain parting as if afraid to touch him.
Adam followed, saying nothing, only his shadow and thoughts slipping into the mist.
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As Ekene led them through Kürdiala's winding halls, silence lingered like smoke.
Trevor exhaled first. "What just happened…"
Jeth was grim. "He didn't use mana."
Daruis nodded once, eyes distant. "He never raised a hand. But none of us could breathe. I've seen the Shadow instill fear, but this…"
Kon's single eye lingered on the path Adam had vanished through. "He didn't even flinch."
Kopa's antlers dipped. "Toran may be the strongest Tracient to in existence."
Johan murmured, voice low. "And it doesn't seem like he want to be."
The air cooled again, this time with unease.
The King of Kürdiala had spared them.
But not because he had to.
Because—for now—he'd chosen to.
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Hall of Wards, Kürdiala – Moments After the Throne Room
The corridors of Kürdiala twisted like thought—long stone passages carved with fractal symbols, each corner pulsing faintly with ancestral energy. The air was cool, echoing with the soft drip of distant water and the distant chant of wind chimes hanging from unseen archways.
Ekene Çelik led the group in silence for some time, his steps smooth, expression unreadable.
Then, with a breath that seemed reluctant but necessary, he finally turned his head.
"I owe you all an apology."
The Lords looked up, surprised.
Ekene's voice was steady, but there was steel behind the humility. "I recognized you from the beginning. I knew the son of Thanon Boga when I saw him. And I had read Adam's name in the Watcher Codex, long ago."
Trevor blinked. "So why reject us at the gate?"
Ekene paused at a narrow arch flanked by mirrored lanterns. "Because Kürdiala survives because we are strict. Our protection is built on protocols—hard ones. When outsiders test them, even those we admire… we push back. It's not disrespect. It's survival."
Darius nodded. "No apology needed, Hand Ekene. You were protecting your own."
Ekene gave a short nod, and they continued walking.
But Trevor, ever curious, scratched behind his ear. "Okay, I've heard it twice now… the Pact of the Narn Lords. What is it, exactly? Some royal handshake?"
Jeth exhaled through his nose, adjusting his hat. "Ain't quite that simple. The Pact was formed long ago—'fore most of us were breathin'. Built on somethin' secret. Asalan's hidden name."
Trevor blinked. "Asalan?"
Jeth nodded slowly. "Yeah. His real name's buried so deep not even the stars speak it aloud. The Narn Lords bound themselves to it. Pact makes sure we don't betray each other… or the world. Makes sure some truths stay hidden."
Kopa's ears flicked. "You make it sound like a burden."
"It is," Jeth replied. "Exclusive. Silent. Last meetin'? Long time back. Only two current Lords were there—Darius, and Lord Thrax."
Trevor raised a brow. "Then how the hell did Adam—?"
"That's the strange part," Jeth said. "Pact's meant to be just for Lords. Least that's what I thought…"
Darius stepped in, his voice calm but tired. "It's true. The Pact is for Lords… but each Lord is permitted a Hand. A chosen successor, bound by Mana Vow, who can attend the summit."
He paused, gaze distant.
"At the last meeting, I wasn't a Lord. I was my father's Hand."
Kon glanced at him. "Then you were.heirs at that table?"
Darius nodded. "Yes. We weren't permitted to speak—but we were allowed to witness. To remember."
Trevor let out a low whistle. "And now the past's catchin' up."
Jeth snorted. "Ain't it always?"
They walked on, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the ancient stone.