CHAPTER 212: CHAPTER 213: THE THUNDER

The tent stood like a cathedral reborn from ash, its walls thrumming with quiet energy, its seams catching the light like veins full of gold. Rain had started to fall, not gently but in staccato strikes that echoed off the tent’s roof like war drums played too late.

Inside, silence reigned.

Then, one by one, the kings and queens entered.

They left behind their banners, their retainers, their few knights, their fears. Inside this sacred war-chamber, only sovereigns could speak. And only truth could live—however brutal, however inconvenient.

Eli stood just outside, the last to enter, the edge of her coat damp with rain. Her eyes—normally sharp with regal calculation—were dim, frayed around the edges.

She looked at Merlin beside her.

He was a shadow of what he once was. Gone was the man who’d barked orders and summoned lightning. Now he stood hunched, silent, eyes fixed on the ground like something had cracked in his soul.

"...so...they are gone," Eli said. The words left her lips like broken glass.

Merlin nodded, slowly. No magic swirled around him now. No fire. No sparks. His connection to the range of the Leylines had been severed completely—cut by Atlas’s unleashed blast like a wire through frost.

Eli exhaled.

It wasn’t just magic that had been lost. It was command. Order. Authority. The invisible chain of control that held her empire together.

She had lost Number 5. Irene. Gone.

Number 2—her strategist. Executed.

Number 7—disintegrated by sheer force.

Each of them wasn’t just a soldier or mage. Each was a pillar of the Empire. Losing them was not like losing a city. It was like losing lungs. Losing sight. Losing the rhythm of one’s own heartbeat.

Number 3 tried to speak, his voice trembling with hope born not of truth, but desperation.

"Your Majesty... we can still win. Number One is still on his way. With him... with hi—"

"Silence," Eli cut through. Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from the strain of holding herself upright beneath the weight of loss.

"...We lost. Berkimhum is no longer a splinter kingdom—no longer weakened or desperate. Our estimation was wrong. Deadly wrong." Her eyes flicked toward the tent. Her hand trembled once—then she clenched it. "They’re waiting."

Merlin spoke now, his voice like dust in a breeze. "So what now? You’ll surrender? Marry the boy?"

She turned toward him. Her gaze sharp. Condemning. Old.

"You already know, old man. You felt it. The world felt it. Atlas... the one you once bowed to..."

She paused. For a moment, the words caught. Her glare imminent.

"...He’s no longer someone we can tangle with. Even if we could, we wouldn’t survive the outcome."

She looked out across the field.

"See? The vultures came before the dead even cooled."

And there they were. Kings and queens, draped in silk, armor, gold, and expectation. They had come not for diplomacy. They had come to ’witness a reckoning’. Some came to pledge. Others to prey.

Atlas still stood at the mouth of the tent, his figure cut from obsidian and silence. He hadn’t looked at her. Not once. Even after she begged for mercy. Even after she nearly died by his hand.

He didn’t care.

That realization struck her harder than any blade ever could.

It hurt.

And for the first time since she claimed her empire, she wondered—

’Maybe death would have been better.’

Then—

"They’re waiting," Atlas said. His voice like thunder already tamed.

She blinked, shaken. "Y...yes."

She walked inside.

He followed.

Inside, the table glowed faintly beneath the light of hovering orbs—arcane, pale gold, casting no warmth. Nine chairs. Eight symbols. And one chair pulsing with no crest—only fire.

The seats were taken slowly, deliberately.

The Pope of the Holy Kingdom of Xandar sat first—robed, his rings shimmering, his gaze unreadable beneath his ancient hood.

The Merchant Queen of Indixinia—veiled in coins and silk—nodded once toward Atlas before taking her place.

King Ragnar of North sat heavily, the sound of metal on wood echoing like a judgment.

King Caesar of Tyronia leaned back, relaxed and confident, his smirk loud even when silent.

Beside him sat Roger, his crimson hair damp with rain, his stare slicing through the air like knives dipped in honey.

And finally, Queen Aahaana—her face veiled in sheer fabric, her hands trembling just slightly—sat like a statue barely resisting collapse.

Then Atlas entered fully.

Henry stood first.

So did the Pope. The Merchant Queen followed. Then Caesar, Ragnar, and finally Aahaana.

One by one, they rose—not just in respect, but in acknowledgment.

Atlas nodded once, then sat.

And as he sat—they all sat

He gave one final nod to his father.

"...First," Atlas began, voice smooth, resonant, deep with heat that came from somewhere else. "I want to hear from the one who started it all."

His gaze turned. Not cold. Not cruel. But piercing.

"The Empress Elizabeth."

The room turned with him.

Eli met his eyes. Her own were steady now—resigned, perhaps, but not weak.

"...We lost," she said. "What more do you want us to say?"

Atlas didn’t blink.

"Loss comes with consequences. And consequence which I was ready to abide by. Killing—was stopped."

His aura did not flare. But the air did. It grew heavier. Denser. It smelled faintly of ozone and burnt stone.

"This temporary alliance waits on your actions. What will the Empire do?"

The Pope spoke next. "Will it keep fighting to the bitter end?"

Roger tilted his head. "Will it ask for peace?"

Then Henry spoke.

"Or will you," he said, "take my son. Atlas. As husband. And make him the Emperor of the Empire."

Bang!

Eli slammed her hand on the table. Her palm burned faintly from the impact, and yet the pain grounded her. Anchored her rage, her grief, her shame.

"Sorry," she said bitterly, "All of your suggestions sound...wonderful."

Sarcasm dripped from her tongue like wine spilled across old parchment.

"I prefer peace. If that is still an option. We will repay what we damaged. We will not touch the Berkimhum Kingdom again."

Henry sighed, reaching slowly into his coat. He pulled free a rolled parchment and slid it across the table.

Its edges were frayed. Its seal—his own crest—burned faintly with residual heat.

"Your ancestors," he said, "promised the same. Again and again. Your father. And his father. They all attacked us. For our gold. Our forests. Our water."

He looked up at her.

"But we stood. Every time."

Then he looked at Atlas.

"And now we do more than stand. We dominate."

He returned his gaze to Eli.

"You want peace? Fine. But peace is not on the table anymore. Berkimhum won’t take the risk."

Then—

Thunder!!

It cracked the sky like a god had snapped a bone.

Outside, the sunlight vanished. Clouds thickened. Rain turned violent. The wind howled like it was mourning the world.

"Where were we?" Caesar said, amused.

"So, Your Highness Elizabeth—what can you give us that would satisfy

the mad price? Soldiers died. Friends lost. Families broken. Our coffers bled. Our fields razed. What can you offer us that would make that mean something?"

Thunder!!

Nobody spoke.

Only the rain answered.

Eli inhaled. Then:

"...Take me."

She whispered it. Then raised her voice.

"You can take me. Instead of the Empire. I will be your hostage. Enslave me. Torture me. Kill me. If you think it will keep my Empire in check."

A silence followed.

Brief. Shocking.

Then, the Pope nodded. Slowly. As if considering the logistics.

But the Merchant Queen shook her head. "You declared your brother, Arthur, as Warmaster. Do you think your absence will stop your war machine?"

Then she looked to Atlas.

"King Henry is right. The only guarantee of peace is not punishment. It’s union."

She gestured lightly.

"Atlas is strength. Intelligence. Leadership. If there must be a bloodline mix, let it be one forged through fire and rule. Not just marriage—but ascension."

Atlas said nothing. His fingers were locked tightly together, knuckles white. He was breathing slower now. Deeper. Like holding something back.

THUNDER!

The table shuddered faintly.

"God damit, why is the weather going haywire—"

Then—

The tent flap burst open.

Aurora stepped in, soaked, breathless, her forehead dotted with sweat.

Her presence drew every eye. She was not supposed to be here.

"...Atlas," she said.

He turned, startled.

"He’s here."

A beat of confusion.

"Who?" he asked.

Then—

Another figure entered.

Loki.

The demigod’s usually controlled expression was pale, sweating, twitching with nervousness.

"...Let’s say—" Loki inhaled sharply, "—my family."