CHAPTER 45: THE SYNOD GATHERS

The chamber of the Verdant Synod glowed with gentle light, shimmering along the crystalline walls as if the trees themselves breathed through them.

Unlike the Ember Court or the fractious human houses, the Elven Magi did not gather in dark halls of power, but in sanctuaries of knowledge.

Robed figures sat in a semicircle, their silver-threaded garments faintly alive with glyphs of warding and remembrance.

At the chamber’s center, a scrying orb pulsed with captured images.

The battle of Dawnhaven replayed in silence, the human levies kneeling, rifles lowered, a storm of fire and steel erupting in unison.

The Ignarion cavalry crumpled on the field, enchanted plate pierced as though it were parchment.

And then, the smooth rhythm of reloading, another volley, and the slaughter repeated.

No one spoke at first. The images themselves seemed sacrilegious.

Finally, High Magister Elorath, his face lined with centuries of patience, broke the silence.

"This is no mere spell. Look at the rhythm, the symmetry of it. This is not sorcery; it is design. Craft. An art alien to the chaos of human Magi."

A younger priestess leaned forward, her green eyes reflecting the flicker of the dying Ignarion soldiers.

"Or perhaps it is not alien at all... Look closely. The formation, the binding glyphs upon their weapons. Does it not resemble the constructs we unearthed in the ruins of Thal’Veyra? The ones we swore could only have been forged by the Eidolons themselves?"

A murmur spread among the Synod. The Eidolons, the ancient progenitors of magic, long vanished, leaving only fragments of their works buried in stone and myth.

An elder, whose voice was cracked but sharp, raised a trembling hand.

"No human could replicate the works of the Eidolons. They are too reckless, too short-lived. If this Caedrion Ferrondel has discovered something akin to their craft... then either he is a fool who stumbled where he should not tread, or he has stolen knowledge meant never to be unearthed."

Others disagreed.

"Fool or not, he wields it. Did you not see? The men in his ranks were ordinary humans. And humans despise those who do not carry the blood of the Eidolons in their veins. Yet here they march as equals with the Magus of Ferrondel. A paradox! To us it is natural; we have always mingled Magi and common folk in marriage, in life. But the humans? This is... heresy."

Another priest laughed bitterly.

"Heresy, yes. But also power. Enough to bring House Ignarion to its knees. Enough to disrupt the balance we have guarded for millennia."

The debate grew louder, voices overlapping. Was this the spark of a human renaissance, the return of the Eidolons through mortal hands, or simply a dangerous anomaly?

At last, High Magister Elorath silenced them with a raised palm. His gaze lingered on the frozen image of Caedrion, holding his strange new weapon aloft before his troops.

"If the humans have rediscovered the Architect’s path, then the world itself will shift. Should it spread beyond Ferrondel, not even our wards, nor our priesthood, may remain sovereign. We must learn the truth of this man, and quickly... before either hubris or genius changes the age we live in."

The scrying orb dimmed, but unease lingered in the chamber like a storm on the horizon.

The chamber quieted again, though the air was thick with tension. One of the younger councilors, a hawk-faced elf whose braids were woven with sea pearls, leaned forward.

"High Magister, we could debate this until the mountains crumble. But already the humans gossip. Already rumors spread across the taverns of the south, whispers of a Null army breaking Ignarion’s might. If Ferrondel has rediscovered the Architect’s craft, we cannot remain idle."

Elorath’s fingers drummed the crystalline armrest. "You propose interference?"

"Not interference. Observation," the younger elf replied smoothly.

"Our caravans already pass through Dawnhaven. We sell silks, spices, glass, and enchanted trinkets the humans cannot craft for themselves. Let us send agents among them, merchants, scribes, perhaps even entertainers. No one will suspect anything . They will watch this Caedrion. Listen. Learn."

Another elder frowned, his silvered brows furrowed.

"To stoop to espionage among humans is beneath us. Their lives are short; their ambitions frantic. Must we sully ourselves so?"

A priestess with emerald tattoos along her jawline cut in, her voice firm.

"And yet those frantic ambitions have already slain thousands of Ignarion Magi. Do you not see? If humans can wield Eidolon-forged power through Null hands, the world itself may tilt. Better to sully ourselves in shadows now than be caught blind when the storm breaks."

Murmurs of reluctant agreement circled the Synod. Pride warred with prudence, but prudence began to win.

High Magister Elorath finally nodded. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of centuries.

"Very well. Let it be done. Our merchant guilds will carry more than trade into Dawnhaven. They will carry eyes, ears, and quills. They will learn how Caedrion Ferrondel crafts these weapons, whether he has found true Eidolon remnants... or birthed something new from his own mind. And should he stumble upon powers beyond his control, we will be the first to know."

He leaned closer to the orb, where the image of Caedrion still lingered, his rifle raised before cheering soldiers. For a moment, Elorath’s ancient eyes softened with something not unlike respect, or perhaps unease.

"Let the humans think of us as merchants. Let them believe we still see them as children playing at war. But let no one in this chamber mistake it, this man may herald an ending... or a beginning."

The Synod gave its assent.

And so, within days, ships laden with Elven wine, jewelry, and glassware set sail for human harbors.

Among their crews were men and women whose eyes were sharper than daggers, whose tongues were skilled at prying secrets from drunken lips, and whose quills would record every whisper in Dawnhaven’s streets.

The elves would learn the truth of Caedrion Ferrondel. And whether he was prophet, thief, or fool, they would be ready.