Far across the lands, in the halls of marble and memory,
the Council of the Virtuous convened.
Seven figures, cloaked not in opulence but in discipline,
sat in the Circle of Oaths — the chamber where truth alone had power.
Their faces were carved from different lands,
their voices tempered by different storms,
but their hearts were one:
unbroken, unbent, and loyal to the Sovereign's will.
Today, however, even they felt unease stir within them.
The Envoy of Selvarad had arrived with gifts:
golden cloth, rare spices, false words wrapped in honey.
And yet — behind the glint of treasures —
the Council saw it:
fear.
Not fear of invaders.
Not fear of poverty.
But a deeper terror —
the fear that one's own people may no longer believe.
A silence, heavy and cold, fell over the chamber.
The eldest among them, the Seer of Winds, finally spoke:
["When the roots rot, the tallest tree falls not from axe nor storm, but from the weight of its own deceit."]
The others nodded gravely.
The Council was wise — but they were not blind.
They knew:
where corruption takes root, rebellion blooms.
Where pride deafens a kingdom, destruction follows.
"The Sovereign entrusted us not with dominion," spoke the Hammer of Dawn, her voice low, "but with stewardship. If Selvarad has broken faith, we must see with our own eyes, not through gilded lies."
It was then that a parchment, sealed in black wax, arrived.
No courier had entered.
No messenger was seen.
The Seer broke the seal.
Inside, written in a hand few alive had ever seen, was a single line:
["The river carves through the mountain not by force, but by patience. Watch, but do not yet strike."]
The Council bowed their heads in silent reverence.
The Sovereign still walked the earth.
The Sovereign still saw.
---
Far from their deliberations,
in the market square of Selvarad,
the Sovereign — hidden among the beggars and the merchants — watched as a soldier whipped a boy for speaking out of turn.
The world seemed to slow.
The air grew thick.
The Sovereign stepped forward, not with fury, but with a gaze that froze blood.
He said, his voice like a blade sheathed in velvet:
["Those who sow cruelty shall harvest ruin, though they mistake it for justice."]
The soldier's hand trembled.
He dropped the whip and fled into the crowd.
The boy looked up —
and though he saw only a simple traveler,
he felt as though the mountains themselves had bent low to lift him.
---
In the tower of the tyrant king of Selvarad,
a dark council brewed.
Plans to tighten the yoke.
Plans to bleed the people further.
But the Sovereign already knew.
["A tyrant may build a thousand walls," he whispered to the night, "yet one crack, unnoticed, will bring them all to dust."]
And thus, as stars turned overhead,
the first quiet war began — not with swords,
but with seeds planted in the hearts of the forgotten.
The Sovereign had no need to shout.
The world itself would hear him in time.