The Great Hall of the Royal Citadel was stale with the lingering scent of too many bodies. The vibrant banners seemed to hang a little limper, the grand pronouncements of the first day now reduced to dry recitations.

  King Elric IV, face etched with weariness, read from a parchment scroll held by a nervous-looking scribe. His voice carried a resigned note.

  "...and thus, by the collective wisdom of this Great Council," he intoned, "it is resolved: that the Northern Garrison at Lastwall shall be reinforced by two additional companies of foot from the King’s Own Midlanders, to be dispatched within the fortnight. A further Lance of horse, the Gryphon Riders from the Barony of Highcliff, shall be redeployed to Woodhall to support Shield-Captain Eghel’s Iron Lances."

  A polite murmur of assent rippled through the hall. Falazar, standing beside the throne, had to keep himself from scoffing. Two companies and a lance. Against the forces Ruthiel had described, against the true nature of the Entity, it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a fishing net.

  "Furthermore," the King continued, "an Office of Northern Concerns shall be established forthwith. Its mandate will be to gather intelligence, coordinate defensive measures, and advise this Council on further actions as deemed necessary. The esteemed members appointed to lead this Office are: Lord Grellen of Stonebridge, representing the military interests; Master Horatio Finnigan of the Southern Merchant Consortium, representing the economic considerations of the realm; and Archmage Falazar, serving as Arcane Advisor."

  Falazar mantained a neutral expression, though inwardly he winced. Grellen was a competent, unimaginative, staff officer. Finnigan was Chancellor Valerius’ man, a merchant whose primary concern would be how any military action might disrupt his lucrative trade routes. His own role, he knew, would be to provide dire warnings that would likely be diluted or dismissed.

  "The matter of the… constructs recovered from Alderholt," the King paused, "shall be subject to further study by a select committee of scholars and mages, under the oversight of Archmage Falazar, at the secure facility of Woodhall. No offensive deployment of these entities shall be considered until their nature, control, and loyalties are fully ascertained."

  More delays. More committees. While stone giants capable of annihilating goblins sat inert, and Grellen’s two companies of foot soldiers marched slowly north.

  "Finally," the King concluded, rolling up the parchment, "this Great Council expresses its profound gratitude to Sir Ronigren of Varden for his bravery and clear testimony. A royal commendation shall be entered into the records." He offered Ronigren, standing amongst the observers, a brief, tired nod.

  And that was it. The Great Council, the grand assembly of Argren’s might and wisdom, had spoken. They had debated, compromised, they had issued their decrees. Small, strategic choices, carefully weighed and balanced, designed to address a "northern problem" without disrupting the kingdom’s delicate equilibrium.

  Falazar looked out over the assembly of nobles, many already turning to converse with their neighbors, their relief at the Council’s conclusion palpable. He thought of Ruthiel’s warnings, of the relentless, insidious Entity of Solitude. He thought of the chilling, unknown power he and the Elf had sensed in the arcane realms. Unbidden, an image flashed through his mind: a vision of massive, scaled creatures with hateful, off-white eyes, marching alongside a goblin horde, their tree-trunk maces clanging, a tide of darkness rolling south.

  The murmur of mice, he thought grimly, while giants stirred in the shadows.

  The Great Council concluded with a sigh of collective relief from most of Argren’s assembled nobility. They dispersed back to their estates and city manors, their duty done, their consciences clear, leaving the newly formed Office of Northern Concerns to grapple with the messy details.

  Falazar felt no such relief. The Council’s resolutions were a pathetically inadequate shield against the storm he knew was gathering. He needed allies within the new Office, individuals who understood the true stakes, not just political appointees concerned with budgets and power plays.

  He sought out Sir Ronigren the following morning, finding him in the Citadel’s armory, overseeing the replacement of his battered frontier gear. The young man looked weary, the royal commendation doing little to alleviate his gloomy disposition.

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  "Sir Ronigren," Falazar began, his voice cutting through the clang of steel. "A word, if you please."

  They walked briskly through less frequented corridors of the Citadel. "The Office of Northern Concerns," the Archmage said without preamble. "A typically Argrenian solution – a committee to dilute responsibility and delay decisive action. Lord Grellen is a competent soldier, but he sees only what is placed directly before his nose. Master Finnigan sees only ledgers and profit margins. They will be… obstacles."

  Ronigren nodded with a grimace. "I had gathered as much, Archmage."

  "I require someone within that Office who has looked the beast in the eye," Falazar continued, his gaze intense. "Someone who understands that this is not merely a matter of reinforcing garrisons, but of confronting an ancient, insidious power. Someone whose testimony carries the weight of firsthand experience, not just hearsay or arcane theory." He paused. "I have suggested to Lord Marshal Tyrell that your recent experiences make you an invaluable asset to this new Office. As a special liaison, perhaps. Your insights would be… persuasive."

  Ronigren stopped, surprised. To be part of such a high-level body, even as a liaison, was unexpected. He saw the shrewd calculation in Falazar’s steely eyes. The Archmage was maneuvering, subtly applying pressure. To refuse would be to abandon the fight, to leave the understanding of Alderholt’s horrors solely in the hands of bureaucrats and skeptics.

  "If the Lord Marshal and the King see fit, Archmage," Ronigren said slowly, "I will serve where I am most needed."

  Falazar gave an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction. "Good. Your voice will be a necessary counterweight to the… pragmatists."

  As they continued walking, a comfortable silence settled between them. Then, almost unbidden, Ronigren found himself speaking.

  "Archmage," he began, a strange compulsion guiding his words, "there is something else. Something… odd. Likely nothing of consequence, but…" He hesitated, feeling foolish, yet the image persisted. "The other night, in an inn, The Gilded Griffin. I saw a young woman. With a merchant, her father, perhaps. She was remarkably tall. Impossibly so. Easily a head and shoulders above any man there, yet clearly human in all other respects. There was an uncanniness about her, an eerie sense of… scale, of something not quite fitting. It was just a fleeting glimpse, but it struck me as… significant, though I cannot say why. With creatures of legend crawling out of the woods—"

  The Archmage, who had been walking with a brisk, even stride, came to a dead stop in the middle of the corridor. He turned to face Ronigren with startling, focused intensity. The casual dismissal Ronigren had expected was nowhere to be seen."Tall, you say? Unnaturally so? And human in appearance?"

  "Yes, Archmage. Strong, too. She carried a massive trunk with an ease that belied her youth." Ronigren felt a flush of embarrassment. "It is likely just a trick of the light, or my mind playing games after Alderholt."

  The Archmage was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, as if piecing together fragments of a vast, unseen mosaic.

  "No, Sir Ronigren," Falazar said finally, his voice thoughtful. "Do not dismiss such instincts. The world is reawakening to older, stranger truths. What seems an oddity today may be a crucial piece of the puzzle tomorrow." He turned, his mind already racing. "Thank you for sharing that. It is… most intriguing."

  ***

  Later that day, as twilight once again settled over Alkaer, Falazar sought out Ruthiel in the quiet seclusion of the observatory. The Elf was gazing at the northern constellations, their expression somber.

  "Ruthiel," Falazar began, "Sir Ronigren spoke of an unusual sight. A young human woman in the city, of exceptional, almost giant-like stature."

  The Elf turned, their luminous eyes narrowing slightly. "Giant-like? How so?"

  "His description was vague, yet compelling. Well beyond the bounds of normal human growth. It brought to my mind… the old tales. The Jotunai. The Giants of the North." Falazar paused. "In my youth, before the War of Solitude had scoured such legends from common memory, there were a few scattered clans still dwelling beyond the Great Waste, in the uncharted territories where Argren’s old borders once frayed. Lynneus himself once speculated on their decline."

  Ruthiel nodded slowly. "The Jotunai, the Terra-Born. Indeed, they were a elder race, their strength tied to the very bones of the earth. Most believed them faded from the world long before the War of Solitude, their time ended, their great halls fallen to ruin and swallowed by ice." A shadow crossed their features. "Yet, if the Entity of Solitude is indeed stirring, it would seek to awaken or co-opt all the old powers, all forgotten grievances. Even those of a people thought lost to time."

  "Could a descendant, perhaps one of mixed blood or a lineage long dormant, still exist?" Falazar mused. "And appear now, in Alkaer, as these other events unfold?"

  "Sometimes, threads long thought severed can re-emerge, drawn by the pull of great events. If such a one walks your city, she is either a beacon of unimaginable hope, or a pawn of terrifying potential." Ruthiel said.

  Falazar looked out at the sprawling, oblivious city below. The Office of Northern Concerns would bicker over troop deployments and supply lines. The King would fret over his divided Council. And meanwhile, ancient powers, forgotten races, and the tendrils of a world-consuming Entity were all converging. The uncanniness of a tall girl at an inn might indeed be another crucial and unsettling piece of the unfolding drama.