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Chapter 69: The Silence at Durell

Chapter 69: The Silence at Durell

The gates of Caer Durell rose from the morning mist like a forgotten monument, vast and cold and unwelcoming. Hewn into the cliffs above the River Dall, the stronghold looked less like a seat of power and more like a tomb.

The Truthmarch halted at the foot of the bridge.

Forty-one riders. Blank banners. And a silence deeper than the river beneath them.

Leon stepped forward first.

No horns greeted them. No guards emerged. Only the slow groan of gears as the ancient drawbridge creaked down across the chasm. On the far end, two wardens in steel-grey robes waited, faces hidden, staves crossed.

"State your purpose," one called.

Leon answered, his voice steady. "We bear the truth. From the Vale Below. From the buried oath. From the First Accord."

The second warden tilted his head. "And who bears it?"

Leon raised his hand, revealing the ring.

"I do. As the last Witness."

A beat passed. Then the staves lowered.

The doors groaned open.

They crossed in silence.

Inside, the halls of Caer Durell were unchanged. Dustless. Empty. As if time itself had agreed to wait here. Echoes lingered in corners where voices once ruled nations. Columns bore old scars—from blades, not age.

They were led to the Upper Circle, where twelve seats stood half-filled. Seven figures watched from beneath crested hoods. The other five seats stood dark.

Leon and the Witness entered alone.

One of the hooded figures leaned forward. "You wear a ring lost to fire."

Leon met his gaze. "Because the fire was never finished."

Another voice, sharper. "You’ve brought no records. No proof. Just a relic."

The old woman stepped forward. "He brings memory."

They scoffed.

Until she spoke again.

And when she did, the room changed.

Her voice was not loud, but it carried weight. It trembled nothing. It demanded nothing. It simply remembered. And with each word, the pillars shook. The seats dimmed. And the fire in the centre of the chamber began to burn blue.

She spoke of Elberyn. Of the first fracture. Of how the Twelfth Oath was not betrayal, but refusal—a refusal to turn justice into dominion.

And as she spoke, the walls responded.

Glyphs lit in the stone.

Old seals cracked.

The Chamber of Accord, long silent, listened.

When she finished, the silence held for what seemed like ages.

Until one voice, younger than the others, asked,

"What do you want from us?"

Leon answered.

"Nothing. Only that truth be written again. And not in the hands of those who fear it."

Outside, the snow began to fall again.

But this time, it melted before it touched the stone.

One of the robed figures rose slowly, the weight of age bending his shoulders but not his will. His hood fell back, revealing a face etched with lines like dry riverbeds, eyes rimmed red from sleepless decades.

"We buried that oath," he said. "Because it broke the unity we had sworn to protect."

The Witness turned toward him. "You buried it because you feared what it required, sacrifice without dominion. Power with accountability."

Another figure—a woman this time, her voice like a cracked bell—spoke up. "And what would you have us do? Tear down the Circle? Give the seats to ghosts?"

Leon stepped forward, boots echoing in the sacred hush. "Not ghosts. Not even me. But the record must be restored. The Archive returned. The people told."

He paused, letting the weight of silence settle again.

"If the Accord is to mean anything now, it must be because we faced the truth, not shaped it."

From the rear of the chamber, a door creaked open.

Kellen entered with Elena and two of the Shieldbearers. In their arms—sealed scrolls. The originals from the Vale. Recovered pages from the Truthwell, copied word for word under flame and vow. They laid them before the Circle.

One of the seated lords stood and crossed the chamber. He examined a scroll, hand hovering just above the ink. Not touching.

"These shouldn’t exist," he whispered.

"And yet they do," Elena said.

"Who else has seen them?"

"Enough," Leon replied. "And soon, more."

A murmuring broke through the Circle. Some leaned forward, others turned inward, whispering beneath their hoods. The light from the blue fire cast flickering truths across their robes—some stained darker than others.

Finally, a younger voice—firm, but not arrogant—rose from a woman on the far right seat. "What of Tobias Virell?"

Leon’s jaw tensed. "He moves behind veils. We have no direct proof. But he sent a warning. And his signature was real."

The elder man looked toward her. "If Virell still lives... then the Council’s fracture is wider than we feared."

The Witness stepped beside Leon, her voice now gentler. "You cannot patch a cracked foundation with silence. The rot spreads until collapse becomes mercy."

Another pause. Then the woman who had questioned Virell stood.

She removed her hood.

"Truth, then," she said, "must be named aloud."

She turned to the other six. "Let it be entered into record. That the marchers have presented testimony. That the Archive was taken. That Elberyn’s oath was not rebellion, but of resistance."

Some murmured in agreement. One stood and walked out.

But five remained.

One by one, they lowered their hoods.

And when they did, Leon exhaled for the first time in hours.

Not victory. But in the beginning of something new.

He turned to the Witness, who merely nodded.

"Now," she said, "let the memory spread."

Far below, in the antechambers where the scribes still worked by candlelight, the bells began to toll. Not in alarm.

But in record.

The Circle had spoken.

And the Accord had shifted.

A floor clerk in ceremonial white emerged from the side passage, eyes wide as he approached the central dais. He carried a scroll marked with a crimson braid—a sign that the words within must be spoken before the fire, not merely read.

"Proceed," said the elder lord, now standing.

The clerk stepped forward, unrolling the scroll with a trembling grip. "Message borne by hawk-rider. From the east. Verified by triple seal. Fortress Vaelen has fallen."

Gasps rippled across the Circle.

Elena clenched her jaw. "That’s days ahead of what the lines predicted."

"It’s not a battle," the clerk added, almost hesitating. "There was no siege. The commanders... they abandoned post."

Leon frowned. "Abandoned? Why?"

The clerk didn’t answer. He held up the scroll again.

The Witness took it from him.

Her eyes scanned the ink, and when she raised her face again, her voice was iron.

"They didn’t abandon. They received a summons. And they obeyed it."

"From who?" the seated woman asked.

Leon already knew the answer.

"Tobias Virell," he said.

A silence fell heavier than before.

The clerk stepped back, dismissed.

The elder lord crossed the dais to the blue fire and threw in a pinch of silver ash. Sparks flared skyward, coiling along the high stone ribs of the chamber.

"This... changes much."

"No," the Witness corrected. "It only reveals what has long festered."

Leon stepped forward again, the embers casting sharp light across his features. "If Virell can pull garrisons without resistance, then his roots go deep. This Circle must act—publicly."

Another lord, until then silent, finally spoke. "And if we do? What then? Do we indict the Council? Name one of our own as oathbreaker before the whole Accord?"

"Yes," Leon said.

The fire cracked louder.

The Circle stirred.

From the stairwell behind the chamber, boots echoed—measured, armored, unhurried. A captain of the inner watch entered with five runners, each bearing dispatches.

The captain’s face was pale.

He bowed low. "The eastern command chain has severed. Three provinces have gone quiet. All scrying links return null. The lines are collapsing."

Leon met Elena’s gaze. "He’s moving now."

She nodded. "And he wants the Circle to be too late."

Another lord turned toward the fire. "Then we name it now."

He extended his palm over the flame.

"I, Corven of the High Seat, do enter it into as a witness, Tobias Virell has risen in treason, and the Fifth Oathbreaking was never mended."

The blue fire surged higher.

One by one, the others followed—five in total.

Elena turned to Leon, her voice low. "Then it’s begun."

Leon’s gaze never left the fire. "No. Now it starts."

The Witness turned toward the Circle. "Then let your scribes wake the cities. Let the banners change. Let the names be read that were erased."

One of the elder lords, his hands trembling at his sides, looked up. "There will be war."

The firelight caught the lines of Leon’s face as he said, "Then let it be fought with truth in hand."

From the far edge of the chamber, a bell tolled again.

This time, it did not stop.

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