The heavy oak doors of the council chamber seemed to amplify the silence that followed Elred’s suggestion. A silence so thick, it felt like a physical presence, pressing against the eardrums of every council member.

  Old Elred, a man whose life had become synonymous with the city of Home, a man whose voice had once commanded respect and swayed decisions, had just shattered the fragile veneer of civility with a crude, almost barbaric suggestion.

  Bathilda, a woman whose presence in the council was as unexpected as a summer storm in winter, stood rigid, her eyes blazing like molten gold. The air around her crackled with an energy that made the hairs on the back of everyone’s necks stand on end. Diplomat Jones, usually a picture of ginger composure, had gingerly paled, his carefully arranged papers trembling in his hands. The other council members, a collection of merchants, artisans, and bureaucrats, were frozen in their seats, their faces etched with a mixture of shock and dread.

  "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Bathilda’s voice, though low, resonated through the chamber, each word a sharp, icy shard. The question hung in the air, a challenge that demanded an answer, an answer that Elred, in his hubris, was ill-equipped to provide.

  Attempting to salvage the situation, he stammered, "I…I merely meant that we should…examine them. Is it not better to take precautions?" His voice was weak, a mere whisper compared to Bathilda’s thunderous pronouncement. He knew, as did everyone else, that the "them" he referred to were Bathilda’s adopted children, two Demon Kings whose origins remained shrouded in mystery.

  Emboldened by his years of unchallenged authority, he had dared to suggest a course of action that was not only insensitive but utterly reckless. His words, a blatant violation of Bathilda’s fiercely guarded family, had ignited a firestorm that threatened to consume the entire council.

  "Are you mad?" Bathilda’s voice was laced with a barely suppressed fury. "Why don’t I dissect your skull so we can all have a good look at your brain?" The threat, though delivered with a chilling calm, was unmistakable. Bathilda, a woman who had faced unimaginable hardships and emerged stronger, was not one to be trifled with. She was a force of nature, a whirlwind of raw power and unwavering resolve.

  Before Bathilda could unleash the full extent of her wrath and storm out of the chamber, Gertrude Tufskin, the head of the seamstresses, intervened. With a swift, decisive motion, she delivered a sharp clip to the back of Elred’s head. The elder, startled and disoriented, turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the finest silk. Gertrude, her face set in a stern, disapproving glare, silently conveyed a message that was as clear as it was unequivocal: "Don’t say another word."

  The silence that followed was even more profound than before. Elred, his face burning with shame and indignation, finally grasped the gravity of his transgression. He had not only insulted Bathilda but had also alienated the entire council. Every eye in the chamber was fixed on him, each gaze a silent condemnation. They all understood the delicate balance of power, the precarious position they held. They all needed Bathilda on their side, her strength, her wisdom, her unwavering loyalty.

  The topic of the examination of Bathilda’s children had never been intended for the agenda. It was a reckless, ill-conceived notion born of Elred’s arrogance and a desperate attempt to regain the influence he felt slipping away. He had taken it upon himself to taunt Bathilda, to test her limits, to remind her of her outsider status.

  The reason for his audacity was clear to everyone. Bathilda had snubbed them after their last meeting, a gathering marked by their condescending tone, their thinly veiled threats, and their relentless demands. She had returned to the city, and spoken to the citizens, and told them how the council had attempted to manipulate her, how they had treated her like a pariah. This act of defiance had not only embarrassed the council but had also solidified Bathilda’s position as a champion of the people.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "We’re sorry about that, dear," Gertrude said, her voice soft and conciliatory. "Ignore that cantankerous old fool." Elred, his face still flushed with anger, clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to retort. "What we wanted to talk about was magical communication."

  Bathilda, her anger still simmering beneath the surface, turned her attention to Gertrude. She knew that Home possessed a unique device, a relic of a bygone era, that had once allowed the city to communicate with other settlements. Jones had mentioned it several times, always with a hint of melancholy, lamenting its obsolescence and the isolation of their city.

  "Okay," Bathilda said, her voice regaining its composure. "What do you want to talk about them for? Aren’t they out of commission now?"

  "They are, or were," Gertrude replied, her eyes gleaming with a newfound excitement. "Until this morning."

  The words hung in the air, a beacon of hope in the darkness. Bathilda, her curiosity piqued, leaned forward, her eyes searching Gertrude’s face for answers. She had always been fascinated by the history of Home, by the remnants of the advanced civilization that had once thrived in this world. The idea that a piece of that history, a link to the past, could be reactivated filled her with a sense of wonder.

  "This morning," Gertrude continued, her voice filled with a sense of urgency, "a signal was detected. A faint, intermittent signal, but a signal nonetheless. It originated from the communication device in the mountains."

  Of course it's the mountains. Why wouldn't it be.

  The chamber erupted in a flurry of whispers. The council members, their faces illuminated by a mixture of excitement and apprehension, exchanged glances. The possibility of re-establishing contact with the outside world, of breaking the isolation that had defined their existence for generations, was both thrilling and daunting.

  "But… but that’s impossible," Jones stammered, his voice filled with disbelief. "We’ve tried everything. We’ve examined the device, we’ve replaced the components, we’ve even consulted the oldest texts. Nothing worked."

  "And yet," Gertrude said, her voice firm and resolute, "the signal is there. It’s weak, but it’s unmistakable. We need to investigate. We need to find out who or what is trying to contact us."

  Bathilda, her mind racing with possibilities, nodded in agreement. The prospect of discovering another community, of learning about the fate of humanity, was too enticing to resist. "What do we know about the signal?" she asked.

  "Very little," Gertrude admitted. "It’s a series of pulses, a rhythmic pattern that repeats at irregular intervals. We’ve been trying to decipher it, but we haven’t made much progress."

  "We need to bring in experts," Jones suggested, his voice regaining its confidence. "We need to consult the archives, to find any information that might shed light on this signal."

  "And you need to be cautious," Bathilda added, her eyes scanning the faces of the council members. "We don’t know who or what is on the other end of that signal. If my experiences here are anything to go off, we need to be prepared for anything."

  The council, united by a shared sense of purpose, began to discuss the next steps. They talked about assembling a team of experts, finding the communication device and came up with a plan of action. The air in the chamber, once thick with tension and animosity, was now filled with a sense of hope and anticipation. The discovery of the signal had not only rekindled their curiosity but had also reminded them of their shared humanity, their collective desire to connect with the world beyond their isolated valley.

  Elred, still smarting from his earlier humiliation, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. He knew that he had made a grave error, that he had jeopardized the fragile peace of the council. But as he listened to the excited chatter of his colleagues, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, this signal, this unexpected message from beyond their walls, could offer a chance for redemption, a chance to mend the bridges he had so carelessly burned.