THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

His heart hammered in his chest as a figure emerged from the gloom. It was Lord Hilton, his raven hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, his face etched with worry. Clad in rich black garments, he exuded an aura of power that made the meagre guard feel like a gnat in the face of a hurricane. Gareth rose with a snap, saluting smartly. Lord Hilton walked by, his face a mask of brooding contemplation.

He didn\'t even acknowledge the guard\'s presence, let alone return the salute. It was as if Gareth were invisible, a mere speck unworthy of the Lord\'s notice.

A tremor of fear snaked down Gareth\'s spine as he let out a ragged sigh, silently thanking the Goddess for his narrow escape. He\'d been caught napping on the job before, and the memory of his commanding officer\'s icy fury sent a fresh wave of terror washing over him.

The repercussions, a brutal cocktail of public humiliation and potentially worse, were a constant threat hanging over his head, a chilling reminder of the precariousness of his position. He straightened his back, eyes darting nervously down the corridor, the silence now amplifying every rustle and creak that echoed through the vast space. Impatience gnawed at Lord Hilton like a starved beast.

He paced, each polished boot-fall a sharp counterpoint to the oppressive silence of the corridor. Finally reaching a double door of imposing stone, its surface etched with a symbol of two winged warriors grasping a sword. His brisk steps faltered, replaced by a deep breath as he dispelled the fog of his thoughts.

With a touch, the massive doors parted as effortlessly as if they were mere silk curtains. The sight that greeted him was familiar, yet held a weight that never failed to press upon him – the Advisory Council Chambers. Darkness pooled in the vast chamber, broken only by the soft glow of lanterns strategically placed on the periphery.

Here and there, figures stirred, murmurs rising like wisps of smoke before dissipating into the stagnant air. As the single set of heavy boots resonated across the flagstone floor, the murmurs vanished, replaced by a tense silence. Heads snapped up, eyes tracking Lord Hilton\'s measured stride as he made his way towards the raised platform.

A throne, its towering backrest a testament to ancient craftsmanship, dominated the platform. Intricate carvings depicting scenes of conquest and power adorned its surface, each a silent reminder of the lineage and authority it embodied. Lord Hilton settled onto the throne, the cold stone a stark contrast to the simmering might that burned within him.

A long, heavy silence stretched, punctuated only by the nervous fidgeting of the Council members below. Finally, his voice cut through the oppressive air, a low rumble that echoed with power and a hint of barely contained dark aura. "Begin," he commanded, the single word a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. A voice, slick with piety, broke the tense silence.

"My Lord," it rasped, "it is indeed a blessing from the Goddess that Young Master David still draws breath!" Elder Maison, his face shrouded in shadow, bowed deeply, his words dripping with a false reverence that sent a shiver down some spines. Another figure, shrouded in darkness, sneered. "Elder Maison," he spat, "The importance here lies not in that brat\'s continued existence!

Someone dared raise a hand against your son, Lord Hilton. A blatant challenge to the De Gor name, to your very authority!" The chamber buzzed with murmurs of agreement. The audacity of the assassins had clearly struck a nerve. "An iron fist, my Lord!" a third figure urged, his voice ringing with righteous fury.

"We must retaliate with such force that it sends shivers down the spines of all who dare plot against our family!" A chorus of voices echoed the sentiment. "How dare they commit such an act!" they roared, their outrage palpable. A council member, his face etched with cunning, stepped forward. "With your permission, Lord Hilton," he rasped, bowing low, "allow me to gather our best shadows.

They will unearth the culprits and bring them to swift justice." Lord Hilton\'s gaze met his, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in his cold blue eyes. "Elder Scrolls," he drawled, his voice laced with a hint of disdain, "that would be... unnecessary." Elder Scrolls\' brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to protest, but Lord Hilton cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"David," the Lord spat, the word dripping with contempt, "is not worth the effort. A weakling, a stain on the De Gor name. Let him fade into obscurity." He paused, a predator circling its prey. "Strength, gentlemen," he continued, his voice rising in power, "strength is the cornerstone of dominance. Without it, what fear can we inspire?

What respect can we command?" Lord Hilton scanned the faces around him, his gaze lingering on each council member in turn. A shiver ran down some spines, a subtle reminder of the power he wielded. "The hidden organization that plagues this land," he continued, his voice low and dangerous, "will be dealt with in due time.

But not over the life of a wastrel son." He acknowledged Elder Scrolls\' unspoken question with a curt nod. He wasn\'t foolish, he understood the concerns. But Lord Hilton had his priorities, and a weak son wasn\'t one of them. "Any news on the wellbeing of the Archon of Warfare?" he finally asked, his voice shifting gears, a hint of urgency creeping into his tone.

The assassination attempt was a distraction, but the real game was far from over.