Then he stands and steps forward.
“House Mars will attend,” he declares. “And I name Cyra of the Mars Court as my attending advisor.”
The nobles stop whispering. Even the servants pause mid step.
Dozens of eyes turn on me like crosshairs. It’s at this moment that my withdrawal rears its ugly head, baited by stress and scrutiny. I clasp my hands firmly behind my back so no one will notice the trembling. But things I can’t hide emerge too – my face loses all colour, and my breathing becomes shallow from skipped heartbeats.
Fragments of whispers reach me:
“A junior healer as advisor? What precedent is that?”
“She has no bloodline, no training…”
“This will make Mars look weak...”
Lord Zevran ignores them, already turning away. But the weight of their stares pins me.
Lord Vance storms through the crowd to my side, his face dark. “This ishighlyirregular –an advisor is required to have political experience, rank … knowledge of system laws … you have none of these!”
“I—I don’t—” Words fail. The hall spins.
Lady Maren leans in smoothly, rubied fingers clasping sharply around my shoulder. “Oh, you poor thing, this seemsterriblyout of your league, dear. You’ll be at tables with players who’ve trained for this since childhood.”
They’re circling like hawks.
“The Houses will demand answers,” Lord Vance presses. “Your background, your connections – what will you tell them?”
I force the words out. “Th-that I serve House Mars…”
Before I can falter further, Commander Nael cuts in, his voice carrying. “His Grace has the prerogative to choose his own advisor. Better we focus on supporting that decision.”
The noble’s recoil, but even Commander Nael’s eyes rest on me too long.
I can’t breathe. I slip away, mind racing. If I’m to survive, I need to know what I’m walking into.
The library’s restricted archives are opened for me after I mention His Grace’s appointment. Archivist Ewan, the head librarian, only nods. He’s a thin man with ink-stained fingers and spectacles that magnify his pale eyes to an unsettling degree. “Wise. Most who enter the Conclave go in blind.” He tells me after I request access.
He leads me through the main reading room; past shelves that climb three stories high, connected by narrow iron staircases that spiral into shadow. The restricted archives are behind a locked door at the back, where the dust motes swirl in the thin light from high windows. Archivist Ewan pulls several leather-bound volumes from a locked case, their spines cracked and faded, then leaves me alone at a scarred wooden table.
The records spill horror.
The last Conclave, thirty-three years ago, ended with two House leaders dead, other nobles and advisors stripped of their titles, and the Sun King consolidating more power than any single ruler had held in centuries.
I find detailed accounts of the trials, and my hands shake as I read:
“The Trial of Strength saw the representative of Jupiter fall to his death. Investigation later revealed sabotage of his equipment, though no culprit was identified.”
“The Leader of Mercury was eliminated during the Trial of Mind when her sealed chamber was flooded with neurotoxin gas. Again, sabotage was suspected but never proven.”
The most chilling entry comes near the end:
“King Solric’s victory was assured not through skill or merit, butthrough a suspected systematic campaign of intimidation and sabotage. Those Houses that submitted early were spared; those that resisted found their leaders dead and their planets under military occupation.”
He turned the Conclave into a bloodbath just to win.
Yet in older records I find something different: accounts of the very first Conclaves from centuries ago, when they were actually meant to test leadership.
“The sacred trials are designed to test not just physical prowess, but wisdom, compassion, and the ability to unite rather than divide. A true leader must be able to endure suffering, solve complex problems, and bring peace between conflicting factions.”
