The Crystal Hall of Brittania was never meant to be so cold. Its walls, made of blue-veined glass, were built to capture starlight and turn it into warmth, but tonight, the sky was covered in darkness. A thick black mist poured in from the eastern horizon, choking the stars until even Orion seemed to struggle in the smoky haze. The chandeliers above shook in their mounts, casting light that barely reached the chilly floor below.

  In the center of the vast chamber stood the Round Table—a relic from the First Kingdom, carved from a single piece of celestial quartz. It was said that the table could remember every vow made upon its surface. But this evening, its polished surface reflected nothing but the cold weight of fear.

  Bootsteps echoed on the marble.

  Armor clinked softly.

  No one dared to break the heavy silence until a thin man in a gilded uniform stood to speak to the assembly.

  “The reports have been confirmed,” Lord Percival Jr. declared, standing tall as a descendant of the knight who first pledged loyalty to Arthur Pendragon. His voice held steady from years of leadership, yet beneath it lay a heavy weariness. “Gamma has fallen. Not just defeated—erased. Our last battalion stationed at the Citadel managed to send one transmission before communication was lost. The message contained just one word.” He paused, as if saying it aloud would bring disaster upon them. “Fitran.”

  The sound echoed through the hall.

  Candles flickered unnaturally as if caught by an invisible force.

  Across the table, Lady Igraine tapped the crystal with the edge of her silver fan, the sharp sound cutting through the murmurs in the air. “Then there can be no doubt. The Dominion of Black Reflection has formed. If the void now advances with intent, Brittania could soon find itself on the edge of ruin.” She turned, her gaze intense as it swept over the bishops assembled along the chamber walls. “We must declare a holy war before that mist reaches our shores!”

  Her words ignited an immediate response in the room. Priests began whispering prayers, generals demanded mobilization, and magi fell into heated arguments over containment sigils that had already failed in Gamma. Voices crashed together in chaos—fear sharpening their determination into a solid stance.

  Percival Jr. stood amidst the turmoil, his presence a calm in the chaos. “War against what, my lady? Mist? Our own shadows?” Although his voice remained steady, the slight tremor in his hand revealed his inner conflict. “The scouts reported no armies, only a silence that swallowed thought. If we act recklessly, we could face the same fate as Gamma.”

  “Better to fight and perish than to yield to a specter,” Igraine countered sharply. “Your ancestor would have drawn his sword by now.”

  Percival’s expression hardened, his resolve solidifying. “My ancestor lived in a time when darkness took solid form. This darkness hides within our memories.”

  The debate disrupted the hall once more. Their words echoed off the crystal ceilings, a chorus of trapped spirits—whispers of pride, beliefs, and desperation. Yet beneath the noise lay an unspoken fear: the Voidwright.

  And then, as if the world itself paused, light emerged.

  A royal teleportation seal flared in the air—rings of blue flames spreading like petals. The noise in the hall fell silent as every noble bowed their heads in respect. The circle of fire blazed brightly once before vanishing, revealing a woman whose presence altered the atmosphere.

  Arthuria, daughter of Guinevere, the new ruler of Brittania.

  Her hair shone like gold under the flickering light of the chandeliers. A silver coronet rested on her head, framing eyes that sparkled like cold fire. The sword at her side, forged from the light of dawn, pulsed gently—as if aware of the heavy fate ahead.

  With her arrival, even the air seemed more stable. Those who had shouted moments earlier now struggled to breathe.

  She moved forward with determination, crossing the hall until her gaze met those of the gathered nobles at the Round Table, and only then did she speak.

  “I have heard,” she said, her voice steady yet kind, “that the sky above Gamma has disappeared.”

  No one dared to answer.

  “I have heard,” she continued, her voice growing stronger, “that a black mist spreads from the ruins, consuming memory, distorting dreams, and leaving only empty echoes.” Her hand rested firmly on the sword's hilt. “And I have heard that name whispered as its source.”

  Her gaze swept over the hall, locking eyes with those present. “Fitran.”

  The name echoed through the crystal like a somber bell tolling for the dead.

  Arthuria took a deep breath, and there was something in her voice that softened—not a sign of weakness, but sorrow that had learned to stand. “Before you pass judgment, there is something you need to know. In the past, he fought alongside us. When the Void threatened the western seas, he was the one who held the breach alone. When the Sky Codex shattered, it was his hands that sealed it back. You called him a heretic only after peace returned.”

  Lord Percival Jr. stood tall. “Your Grace, that was the deed of another man. What we face now is no longer Fitran Fate, but the Dominion he created. You know what he did to Gamma—”

  “I know,” she interrupted, a subtle tremor slipping through her commanding voice. “Yet I cannot say he has truly departed. If the void reflects who we are, perhaps what he has become also reflects a part of us.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Igraine snapped her fan closed with a sharp click. “Are you suggesting that Brittania shares the blame for the fall of a continent?”

  Arthuria fixed her with a stare, and the soft light from her sword burned brighter. “I propose that pretending to be innocent will not save us.”

  She laid her blade flat on the Round Table. Its light spread across the crystal like veins of dawn. “The council demands a declaration of war. In return, I offer a pact of remembrance. We will not recklessly charge into the void. We will form a Counter-Council—mages, scholars, and warriors from every willing territory to confront the true nature of this Dominion before deciding whether it can be destroyed.”

  The announcement sent ripples through the assembly. Some members erupted into cheers, voices raised in relief, while others voiced their dissent, calling her words blasphemous. Yet, there was an undeniable authority in her voice that silenced the room.

  Percival lowered his head, a sign of uncertainty. “At the very least, allow the Order of the Mirror Knights to accompany you, Your Majesty. The void answers to no prayer; even the strongest resolve can be swallowed by its reflection.”

  Arthuria turned her gaze to the impressive stained glass that adorned the far wall, where her mother was depicted, crowned and resolute beneath a cascade of swords. “Let it try,” she murmured, her words carrying weight beyond mere sound. “If the void remembers him, perhaps it will remember me as well.”

  The candles flickered, their flames dancing momentarily toward her as if drawn by an unseen force. The entire hall seemed to pause, holding its breath in anticipation.

  Then, she lifted her sword and spoke the ancient words that bound her oath to the realm.

  “By the light of the first dawn, by the silence that hangs between breaths, Brittania will not yield to reflection—nor will we turn our backs on what was once ours.”

  The quartz table reacted with a pulse, recognizing the bond formed in that moment. A slight tremor flowed through the floor, as if the kingdom itself was listening.

  The council burst into chaos—scribes raced to record the new commands, heralds organized their seals, and priests whispered prayers to bless what they could not fully understand. But Arthuria stayed unmoving, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon visible beyond the hall's eastern windows.

  For there, above the sea, shadows flickered like breath against glass.

  Parallel Scene — The Under-Citadel of Gamma

  Deep beneath the crumbling citadel, in a crypt marked by faded sigils that had lost their shine, Zaahir knelt before a dying flame. The air was thick with the bitter taste of ash and iron, each breath scraping against his sore throat.

  Once, he had worn a crown made of stellar alloy. Now, it lay beside him, broken in two, releasing a weak glow. From his chest oozed a wound of black light, pulsing in rhythm with his fading heart.

  A voice stirred within that pulse.

  You bleed sovereignty, yet you govern no one.

  Zaahir’s eyes shot open, a spark of defiance igniting within them. “I banished you from the Codex,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Auditor. Parasite.”

  Names are for gods who still need witnesses, the voice replied, its tone dripping with amusement. Call me what you will. The void has no hierarchy. There is only hunger—and it listens to me now.

  Zaahir pressed his palm against the wound, hoping that simple pressure could somehow keep his soul together. “You think I will serve you? I am the last king of Gamma!”

  You were.

  A low, metallic laugh echoed in response. Now you are simply the ghost of a fallen empire. Do you grasp why you survived the birth of the Dominion? Because tales require someone to remember them. You are a mouth without a voice, a ruler sustained by sorrow. Allow me in, and I will reshape that sorrow into power.

  The king’s fingers trembled, a sign of the storm raging within him. He observed the smoke twist and turn, revealing the haunting faces of his court that vanished into the abyss, banners devoured by quiet flames, and the shadowy outline of a man who had once been both friend and protector, frozen amidst the wreckage.

  “Fitran,” he whispered, his voice heavy with resentment and loss. “You opened the gate, calling it salvation. You vowed that the void would bend to our will, not engulf it completely.”

  The voice replied softly, a chilling murmur. He lied—to himself above all.

  Zaahir’s jaw clenched with resolve. “Then I will finish what he began. I will command the void far better than he ever could.”

  Ambition is a language it understands, the whisper urged. But to truly speak it, you must first break apart the part of you that still mourns.

  A jolt of pain shot through him. Dark veins spread from the wound, twisting across his skin like a harsh script etched by unseen hands. He screamed, a desperate sound that never reached the surface. The pyre in front of him collapsed, pulling light into darkness, leaving only the steady thrum of his corrupted heart.

  Rise, Sovereign of Ashes, the Auditor chanted. Rule over the silence he left behind.

  Zaahir stumbled to his feet, his body shaking as the shadows obeyed his will. They leaned toward him, not out of loyalty, but in recognition of his new power. In that critical moment, he became the first Witness-King—a ruler of nothing but reflections, yet more than enough to stir the void’s insatiable hunger.

  Return to Brittania

  The council had long since scattered when Arthuria found herself alone in the hall once more. The air still felt thick with the remnants of magic and argument. She set her crown on the table beside her sword; both objects glimmered faintly—one representing duty, the other filled with memories.

  Beyond the crystal walls, the sea reflected the same dark twilight that had engulfed Gamma. Waves glimmered with a cold glow, carrying a sense of loss within their light.

  Pressing her hand against the glass, she whispered, “Mother, you always said that light can save everything. But what does it mean if what we seek to save has turned away from the light?”

  No response came, only the steady sound of the waves.

  Once again, she drew her sword, holding it close to her heart. “Fitran… can you still hear me? Or has even your own name slipped away?”

  The silence deepened around her—and then, faintly, the mist over the distant sea began to shift. For a brief moment, two spots of blue-red light appeared, watching her from an impossible distance.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “So, it isn’t over.”

  The lights blinked once, then vanished back into the darkness.

  Arthuria lowered the sword, her reflection shimmering in the glass—part queen, part specter. She turned away from the window, her voice almost a whisper.

  “If the world must fall apart to remember you, it will do so on my terms.”

  Between the crumbling skies and the sleeping void, two wills prepared for revelation.

  Arthuria Pendragon, the Queen of Reflection—she who would navigate the depths of despair to reclaim the love that remained, though it was faint.

  Zaahir of Gamma, the Witness-King—he who would unite the essence of oblivion with the burden of revenge, becoming a singular power.

  And somewhere beyond both thrones, unseen yet ever-present, was the Voidwright Saint, whose regret now throbbed beneath the surface of the world like a hidden heartbeat.

  The age of kingdoms had come to an end.

  The age of remembrance had begun.

  And what lay ahead would transcend the limits of peace or war—

  it would be known simply as Revelation.