From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 56: The Conclave’s shadow

The Conclave did not wait.

On the morning of the first bell, the Grand Hall was filled.

Representatives of the Nine Orders occupied their seats—regal, robed, adorned in history. glory and iron. The Head of Blades, the Speaker of Runes, the Keeper of Judgment. Each one flanked by envoys, each with their own guard, seal, and scepticism.

Marien stood at the entry corridor with Kellen, watching the slow swell of murmurs build like storm winds on stone. Leon did not enter with them. He came alone.

When he stepped into the hall, every conversation fell silent.

He didn’t bow. Nor pause. He walked to the center platform, unarmed and unarmored, but nothing about him was unprepared.

"This gathering," said the Arbiter of Balance, voice echoing through crystal-bound runes, "has not convened in nearly a generation. And yet, one cadet’s flame draws us here. Why?"

Leon met his gaze. "Because the flame wasn’t mine alone."

The Keeper of Judgment leaned forward. "You’ve altered the Rite, a sacred act that has gone on for as long as the academy stands. Defied the council. And you are said to have burned the old oath. Do my words hold any truth?"

Leon nodded. "They do."

"And you claim no authority. No backing from a house or war banner. So on what ground do you stand?"

His voice thundered in the hall.

Leon let the silence settle.

"On truth. On a legacy I didn’t choose, but was made to carry. And on cadets who now understand clarity better than fear."

The room shifted. Some bristled. Some murmured. Others listened.

The Speaker of Runes raised her hand. "Do you know what this change implies? The entire structure of our Orders rests on the trials. If you crack it, the foundation follows."

Leon didn’t flinch. "If your foundation can’t survive the truth, then it shouldn’t stand." fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

That silence held longer.

A vote was called.

One by one, the Orders voiced their stance. The House of Shields abstained. The Archivum opposed. The Runespeaker’s Order split. The Warborn approved. The Order of Mercy aligned. Three votes remained.

The final one fell to the Keeper of Judgment.

He stood.

"There are times we must defend the law," he said. "And times we must remember why it was made. Let it be known—this vote falls to the living. To those who will train under its weight."

He raised his hand.

"In favour."

The tally shifted.

The new rite stood.

Chaos didn’t follow.

A sense of clarity did.

Outside the Hall, the Nine Orders responded in waves.

The Warborn held duels in honour of the reformation. Their arena roared with chants not of old names, but new oaths.

The Order of Mercy opened its sanctum to public trials—moral, brutal, unshielded.

The Archivum cloistered itself in silence, sifting through lost tomes and old prophecy scripts. They had not conceded. They were waiting.

And the Shields? They stood at the walls of every outer city under their protection.

Watching.

Preparing.

The Order of Glass, rarely seen in such councils, sent word not in votes but in silence broken by mirror light—two messages delivered to two unknown corners of the continent. No one spoke of it. But Leon felt the world shift.

In the lower vaults, archivists stumbled upon a sealed rune-chain bearing the Thorne crest—long thought burned. Marien brought it to Leon without a word. He broke it open with a thought.

Inside, a single phrase etched in living ink:

"When the oath is ash, the flame shall walk."

By then, eyes had turned toward the Citadel not just with curiosity, but with questions they’d buried for decades.

Leon did not return to the Southern Yard that night. He stood by the flame altar until morning.

When Marien found him, he hadn’t moved.

"You didn’t sleep," she said.

"I didn’t need to."

The fire hadn’t dimmed.

It burned with the weight of all that came before.

And the promise of all that would follow.

And somewhere beyond the eastern ridge, an old watcher stirred—a man who once bore the rite, buried it, and vanished. He blinked once at the rising sun and turned his path westward.

Toward the flame reborn.

But within the Citadel, another stir was beginning.

In the Tower of Glass, a single mirror cracked—not from pressure, not from age, but from sight. A hidden observer, masked in grey and faceless runes, touched the shard. It bled light instead of silver.

"He lit it," the watcher whispered.

A second voice—older, drier—answered, "Then the pact cannot remain still."

"Should we stop him?"

"No. We will watch. If he survives the weight put upon him, he may be the one we have long sought."

Far below, beneath the vaults even Leon had never seen, a lock turned in a place without doors. And something ancient breathed.

Not evil. Not divine.

Just long forgotten.

The kind of forgotten that waits for names to return to the world.

And the name on its lips was Thorne.

That same night, under a sky veiled in cloudlight, three flames were lit across three distant watchposts. Silent. Coordinated. One of them burned blue.

At the Citadel gates, an old soldier who had served under the first Thorne stepped forward for the first time in years. He bore a scar beneath his right eye and a brand hidden under his sleeve. He said nothing. Just placed a worn standard at the gate.

A forgotten insignia.

The instructors who found it didn’t speak either. They brought it straight to Leon.

He ran his fingers over the frayed edge, the fabric worn thin by decades.

"Where did you find this?" he asked.

"At the gate," came the reply. "It wasn’t planted. It was returned."

Leon didn’t smile. But something in him settled—like a stone finding its place in old earth.

Marien stood behind him. "You know what this means?"

"I do."

"Then say it."

Leon looked back toward the flame.

"It means the oath long spoken didn’t die."

He turned toward the Southern Yard.

"It was only waiting."