Chapter 116: Inside Job
Hearthglen stood at the heart of the Alliance like a gilded crown — a city of marble towers and golden domes where every stone had been laid by compromise, coin, or blood. It was here that trade flowed, alliances were forged, and grudges dressed themselves in formal robes before being bared across council tables.
In the great hall of the Alliance building, the air was thick with tension. Murals of past victories and treaties loomed from the high walls, but today their silent pride felt like mockery. The news had spread faster than fire on dry straw: the child of Master Altan, one of the Sky Temple’s Gryphon lords, was missing.
Representatives from every race of the Spinebride filled the crescent chamber. At the dais sat High Moderator Brakar Stonehide of the Ursarok, a bearfolk whose fur had grayed at the tips but whose eyes were sharp as whetted steel. Around him were seated the nobles and envoys of the Alliance, each cloaked in the colors of their people, each carrying the weight of suspicion on their shoulders.
Brakar rose, his voice a deep rumble that silenced the chamber.
"Delegates. This isn’t just about trade disputes or border fights. A Gryphon hatchling, Master Altan’s heir, is missing. The Sky Temple says there were demonic traces at Spinebride Lake. We need to act now, or the Gryphons will destroy us all."
A restless murmur followed, and then the voices began to rise. Lord Kaelrik Steelfang, a gray-furred Lupen noble clad in iron-etched mail, slammed his claw against the oak table.
"Spinebride Lake is in kobold territory. They’re always breeding, burrowing, and skulking there. If demonic traces were found, it’s because the kobolds let the demons in. It’s obvious."
Gasps and snarls broke out from the kobold benches. Speaker Rishik of the Hollowfang Pack, a wiry kobold draped in simple hunting leathers, shot to his feet.
"That’s an insult, wolf. My people might be numerous, but we don’t invite demons home. We’ve lost more scouts to the lake’s mists than anyone else. If a child was taken, it means the danger is growing for us too!"
Marquis Orell Windhorn, a Ramari trader in gilded wool robes, raised his staff and spoke in a measured, oily tone.
"The Lupen are too quick to blame others, and the kobolds are too quick to defend themselves. Don’t forget: cults need money, secrecy, and supplies. That doesn’t come from kobold tunnels, it comes from someone with a lot of cash. Someone’s been paying for this evil."
From the Foxkin benches came a thin laugh. Lady Selvarine Quillshade, her auburn tail coiled neatly around her chair, smiled with razor politeness.
"So you think money alone makes demons? Maybe we should check the caravans that cross every border without a search. Gold, silver, even cursed relics — they all end up in your books, Marquis."
Orell bristled, stamping his cloven hoof.
"Our caravans are what hold this Alliance together! Without Ramari trade, you foxes would still be trading acorns for salt!"
The chamber erupted in snarls, hisses, and shouted insults. Brakar slammed his paw on the table, the sound echoing like a hammerstrike.
"Silence!"
For a heartbeat, all fell quiet, though resentment still simmered in every gaze. From the Ursarok benches, Countess Maelra Frostpelt, tall and broad-shouldered, spoke with cold clarity.
"The Gryphons don’t care about our arguments. If we don’t bring back their child, they’ll come down from their nests with talons and fire. Villages will disappear. Estates will burn. None of us will be spared. Do you really want to keep arguing while their wings are already shadowing our halls?"
Even the proudest nobles shifted uneasily. The thought of a Gryphon’s fury was enough to still most tongues. Brakar leaned forward.
"Then we must decide. Do we investigate as one Alliance, or do we point fingers until the Sky Temple loses patience?"
Kaelrik Steelfang growled.
"The Lupen will send trackers. Our blades are sharp, our noses sharper. We will find the cult."
Marquis Orell snorted.
"Trackers cannot feed an army. My caravans will supply the task force. But if we commit, the cost must be shared by every clan."
Selvarine Quillshade tapped her fingers against the table, voice honeyed and cutting.
"Funds will flow. But do not mistake our generosity for obedience. The Foxkin will not see their coin vanish into wolfish appetites or bearfolk posturing."
Speaker Rishik bowed stiffly, his ears twitching.
"My hunters know the swamps and reeds of Spinebride Lake. Without us, you will stumble blind and die choking on the mists. We will guide, though our lives will surely be the first spent."
Brakar Stonehide raised his paw once more.
"Then it’s settled. We’ll form a joint task force. Every race will send what they can—fighters, money, scouts, caravans. I’ll be in charge. And listen to me: if any of you don’t do your part, the Gryphons’ anger won’t ask who was at fault. It’ll fall on everyone."
Witness after witness was summoned. A kobold scout spoke of eerie chanting by Spinebride Lake before vanishing mist drove him away. A Ramari caravan master swore his wagons saw torchlight in the reeds, though none dared approach. A frogkin fisherman croaked that the waters whispered names at night — and was met with laughter, though unease lingered after. The word returned again and again, in hushed tones and wary glances: Pentademonica.
A cult, some claimed. A shadow, others muttered. To most in the hall, it was rumor piled atop rumor. But to the Gryphons, even the whisper was insult enough. Arguments flared. The Lupen accused the kobolds of harboring the cult in their swamps. The Ramari countered that steel and sword alone could not birth such heresies without patronage. The Foxkin implied that Ursarok border neglect had allowed corruption to fester. Each voice rose, and the chamber roared like a battlefield of words.
But amid the clamor, in a shadowed alcove at the edge of the hall, two figures leaned close. Selvarine Quillshade, Foxkin envoy, her smile fixed but her eyes sharp as razors, whispered beneath the uproar.
"Be honest with me, Marquis. Your caravans go through Spinebride more than anyone. Have your... contacts... told you anything about our group?"
Marquis Dareth Velwool, Ramari lord with silver horns polished bright, shifted uneasily. His woolen robe hid the faint sigil burned into his chest, a mark he dared not show. His voice was low, almost a hiss.
"No. Nothing. If Pentademonica is making a move, they haven’t told me. That worries me more than if they had. Maybe they’re acting on their own now."
Selvarine’s tail twitched.
"Or maybe you’re deflecting, Fox. Your people have always had too many spies and too many books. If the cult was moving, you’d know."
Her smile thinned, whisper turning sharp.
"And yet I do not. Which means either they plot deeper than us both, or someone here—" her eyes flicked to the bellowing Lupen and grumbling Ursarok "—would rather see us claw at each other while the real foe laughs in shadow."
The rush of wind tore scrolls from tables and set the banners of Hearthglen flapping like frightened birds. Three figures descended through the open ceiling: two armored Gryphon knights, their silver-striped sky-blue armor gleaming, and between them, a tall winged noble draped in indigo and silver. He landed without a word. His talons clicked against the stone floor once, twice. The weight of his presence pressed down on the chamber like a mountain sliding into place. Nobles who had been shouting moments earlier now sat rigid, their throats tight, their eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
The Gryphon’s eagle head turned slowly, golden eyes sweeping the chamber. The silence was unbearable — until his voice cut through it, quiet but sharp.
"Enough noise."
He stepped forward, wings folding close. His gaze pinned the Ursarok moderator, then shifted across the Lupen, Ramari, and Foxkin seats in turn.
"My child is missing. I’m not here for your quarrels. I’m here for answers."
No one spoke. Not a claw tapped, not a tail twitched.
The Gryphon tilted his head slightly, like a predator considering a trembling rabbit. His tone stayed level, almost casual, yet it coiled with danger.
"Have you found any clues? Any sign at all? Speak."
High Moderator Brakar Stonehide swallowed, his great frame somehow smaller beneath the Gryphon’s stare. "Just... witnesses, my lord. Rumors of chanting at Spinebride Lake. Signs of dark magic. We’re... still looking into it."
The Gryphon’s feathers rustled, not in anger, but in cold acknowledgement.
"Still investigating," he repeated, flatly. "Three days. And nothing."
He let the words hang. The silence stretched until it felt like the walls themselves might crack under it.
Then his beak opened, voice low and dangerous, each word clipped like a talon striking stone.
"Call him. Bring Baron Silverfury."
A ripple passed through the chamber. Heads turned. Even the fiercest nobles blanched. Lord Baron Silverfury had not sat among them for decades. The Ursarok patriarch had scorned politics, dismissing the Alliance as a web of corruption and cowardice. But now, as if he had been waiting for this moment, the great doors opened, and he entered. The Bearkin’s frame dwarfed all others, his golden irises glowing faintly — the mark of his bloodline. At his side, his knights moved like shadows, armor dull but their presence sharp. Silverfury bowed his head slightly toward Altan, then raised his gaze.
The Gryphon noble’s wings twitched once, then folded.
"Use your eyes. Scour through their minds and FIND. MY. CHILD."
Baron simply bowed and nodded. "As you wish, Master Altan."