The war room of House Pendragon does not welcome. It watches.
Relicsteel columns hold up a ceiling etched with battle seals so old even time seems reluctant to disturb them. The walls carry the weight of history from blades from ancient campaigns, staves wrapped in dormant runes, bows that once sang songs of fire. They hover in magical suspension, silent but not still. Every artifact here has drawn blood or protected it. Every echo laced into their handles speaks of wars long past.
At the center lies a long table carved from relicstone, veined with conquest maps as old as the empire. It is shaped like a blade. No one sits at its head, not even my mother. Not because it is empty. But because the table answers to legacy, not to any single voice.
There are twelve councilors. Each one appointed, seasoned, sharp as the steel around us. Lyra and I make fourteen. The youngest by far, but we sit with the same gravity.
I take my seat at the place marked for the Pendragon heir. I have sat here since I was twelve. Not because I earned it. Not then. But because tradition said I must.
Today, I choose to.
Azmere Pass. That is the name rippling through the reports, murmured across the carved length of the war table. A vital artery in the empire's southern trade network, narrow and winding, shaped by time and wind and hundreds of merchant boots. When it falters, cities do not starve, but they hold their breath.
Echo surges are rare. But when they come, they do not whisper. They rise like pressure through the leyline seams, shifting the very skin of the world. Sometimes they fade, leaving only scorched air and scholars with empty hands. But sometimes, they root. And when they do, the land remembers. It folds inward. Breathes. Becomes a dungeon.
Dungeons are not built. They are born. Shaped by the echo at their core, each one reflects the resonance that anchors it. A sorrow-echo might twist a forest into a maze of weeping branches. A rage-echo could turn stone into jagged flame. A broken echo, left unchecked, could transform the familiar into something deeply unkind.
Sometimes they slumber. Sometimes they open. And sometimes, they break.
When a dungeon breaks, the echo at its core destabilizes and collapses. The dungeon does not vanish. It spills into the real world, twisting the land, warping the air, and letting whatever horrors brewed inside roam free.
That has happened before. Thirty years ago, a surge bloomed beneath the city of Velcrin, silent and unnoticed until it cracked the ground open and tore the sky apart. They called it the Mourning Break. What rose from it was no wound. A labyrinth of ash and sorrow that mirrored the echo at its core. Some believe it had once been a ceremonial censer left buried beneath the temple district. Others say it was nothing more than a cracked incense bowl, forgotten until time and pain turned it sacred. Whatever it was, it remembered loss. And the city remembered with it.
Twelve thousand lives lost in less than a week. Half the city swallowed. The rest burned in blue fire.
The kingdom sent an elite force. My mother led it.
She fought her way to the echo's heart and silenced it, but Velcrin was already gone. The capital declared it a heroic act. Statues were raised. Honors pinned. But the land still mourns, and the city has never fully returned.
We speak of Velcrin in the past tense. And we remember what happens when we are too slow.
I do not wait to be asked.
"If the surge is linked to a buried echo," I say, my voice calm, my hands folded, "we could be looking at a cluster. The distortion might be masking multiple signals."
Heads turn. A few councilors lean forward. Halric watches me with unreadable interest.
"A basic recon will not suffice. We need tethered comms, suppression talismans, and a fallback unit outside the impact zone. We map relay points for extraction, and if we find the source, we mark, not engage."
Silence answers me. Then Lyra speaks.
"He is right."
She does not build on my words. She sharpens them.
"Juno and I can move faster than any standard team. We avoid direct engagement. We keep our signature low and our movement quieter than our breath. We go in, plant beacons, and extract. Quiet. Clean."
Lord Tarvus speaks first. He is old, but not soft. His beard is white as bone, his eyes hard as flint. "You would send two nineteen-year-old children into a forming dungeon?"
"Not two children," Lyra says evenly. "Two graduates of the Imperial Conqueror's Academy. The first and second of our class."
Corven snorts. "That is sentiment talking, not sense."
I meet his gaze. "Then let me offer sense. If we wait to assemble a full recon party, we will lose the pass. Or worse, we will not be the first ones there."
"There is always someone watching," Halric adds. "Not every hunter of echoes wears our colors."
"Which is why we cannot delay," I say. "We move now. We move smart. And we do not give the surge time to grow teeth."
Lyra looks at my mother. "Give us forty-eight hours. If we do not report in, send the fallback team."
Lady Ilyana studies us both. Her gaze lingers a breath longer on me than on her. No hesitation. No doubt. Just weight.
Then she nods.
"Approved."
Just like that, it is decided.
The meeting winds on. Borders. Routes. Shipments. When a trade lane update falters, I offer a correction. A quieter pass beneath the western ridge. Fewer surges. Easier terrain. Halric nods.
Corven notices.
More discussions follow: what supplies the fallback team will carry, how long the tethered comms will hold, the risk assessments for a potential dungeon collapse. I weigh in twice. Not too much. Just enough to remind them I do more than wear the name.
As they debate terrain adjustments, I watch Lyra trace the map's ridgeline again with her finger. She does not fidget. She marks. She memorizes. And when I look away, I realize I had been mirroring her without knowing.
The council moves to close. But as the last of the documents are sealed and the sigils pressed, I catch one last fragment of conversation.
"If the terrain starts shifting," someone says, "we'll need a second team ready to break the dungeon's edge."
"That depends on what kind of echo we are dealing with," another replies. "If it's volatile, we'll be lucky to get a reading before it seals again."
"Which is why they are going," Lady Ilyana says. Her voice cuts through the murmur. "Because if it must be done quietly, it must be done right."
And just like that, the last doubt is cauterized.
The room thins. Councilors drift.
Halric is the last to leave, pausing by my side. His hand, scarred and strong, rests briefly on my shoulder.
"You spoke well today," he says, voice low. "Your father would have been proud."
The words catch me off guard. Halric rarely mentions my father. Rarely offers praise without qualification.
"Thank you," I say, uncertain how else to respond.
He studies me, something like regret crossing his weathered features. "The Ashthorn has a history of maturing with its wielder. Each battle strengthens the bond."
"I'm not concerned about the blade," I reply, maintaining the facade I presented to the council.
His smile is grim. "Of course not. You're a Pendragon. Ready for anything."
Before I can respond, he's gone, his steps fading like the last notes of a half-remembered song.
I remain at the table, hand resting on the hilt of a sword that appears perfectly bonded to all but me and seemingly Lyra, wondering what lies ahead in Azmere Pass and whether I'll measure up when the moment comes.