Chapter 568: Chapter 568: Noel, Balthor and Noriel

The reinforced doors closed behind them with a low, resonant thud that sealed the chamber in quiet. The private hall was carved from dark stone veined with faint mana-lines that pulsed softly under the surface. A long, solid table of polished granite dominated the center, heavy enough that it looked like it had grown from the mountain itself. Three carved chairs waited around it. No servants remained inside. No guards lingered near the walls.

Only stone. Only firelight. Only them.

Balthor dropped into his seat with the ease of someone who ruled from it daily and reached immediately for a thick glass mug already waiting at his place. Noriel remained standing a moment longer before taking the seat at Balthor’s right, posture straight even in privacy.

Noel did not sit immediately.

“I won’t waste a king’s time,” he said evenly as he stepped forward, resting his hands lightly against the back of the chair across from them.

Balthor had just taken a long pull from his mug.

He choked.

Beer went the wrong way. He coughed once, twice, setting the mug down with a heavy clack before wiping his beard with the back of his hand. “Don’t start like that,” he muttered, voice rough from the swallow. “If you’re going to drop something heavy, at least let me breathe first.”

He leaned back, eyes narrowing just slightly, the humor fading but not disappearing entirely. “Alright then. Speak, kid. You said it was important. Important enough to come in person instead of sending a letter.”

Noriel’s fingers tapped once against the stone table before he interjected, voice calm but sharp. “Is this about what I think it is?”

Balthor glanced at him. “About what exactly?”

Noriel didn’t look away from Noel. “Don’t pretend you haven’t considered it,” he said quietly. “The tournament. Nicolas von Aldros. The incident that nearly shifted the balance of the entire event.”

The air in the chamber tightened, not with magic, but with memory.

Noel finally pulled the chair back and sat.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It’s about the one they call the First Pillar.”

His gaze remained steady.

“It’s about the one who wounded Nicolas. And about the man who used to be my friend.”

A small pause.

“Roberto.”

Noriel did not break eye contact.

“So,” he said at last, voice level but direct, “you’re here to ask for help.”

There was no accusation in it. Only clarity.

Noel did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

The word landed without weight shifting or tone changing. He folded his hands loosely on the stone table as he continued.

“I need Tharvaldur’s military support. Your forces.”

Balthor’s fingers tightened slightly around his mug, though he did not interrupt.

“I have six months,” Noel went on. “Within that time, I will have to face Roberto. If I defeat him, this ends before it begins. If I lose…” He let the rest hang for a moment before finishing evenly, “then we prepare for something none of us are equipped to survive.”

Balthor’s expression hardened, humor fully gone now.

Noel drew a slow breath and continued.

“There was a group operating in the shadows. They call themselves the Circle. Six individuals. Six Pillars. Different races. Different positions of influence. One shared objective.”

He paused briefly, not for effect, but to make sure the words would not be dismissed as exaggeration.

“To bring Elarin into this dimension.”

The chamber did not react loudly. It reacted quietly.

Noriel’s posture did not change, but his hand moved up unconsciously, fingers brushing through his hair and smoothing it back in a gesture that betrayed rare tension.

Balthor leaned forward, forearms resting on the table.

“Careful,” he said low. “That name is not spoken lightly.”

“I know,” Noel replied.

He did not soften his tone.

“The history we were taught isn’t entirely false. Elarin did intervene once. The world was saved. That part stands. But what followed was corruption. Slow. Deep. Hidden.”

He met their eyes one after the other.

“If the First Pillar falls, the ritual collapses. The chain breaks. Nothing manifests.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Noriel asked quietly.

Noel did not look away.

“Then Vaelterra may not remain Vaelterra.”

The silence that followed was not confused.

It was heavy with comprehension.

Balthor was not a king who hid behind hesitation.

He leaned back in his chair, thick fingers drumming once against the stone before he spoke.

“You came here yourself,” he said, voice steady now, stripped of all humor. “You didn’t send envoys. You didn’t send demands. You came.”

His eyes held Noel’s with the weight of memory behind them.

“I remember the day Tharvaldur nearly tore itself apart,” he continued. “My brother’s ambition. The academy dragged into politics. Students placed in danger because of bloodlines and pride.”

His jaw tightened briefly.

“You helped me end that. You stood in our arena. You stopped what needed stopping. You protected not just this throne, but the families tied to it.”

Noriel remained silent, listening.

Balthor continued without breaking pace.

“You saved our students. You stabilized this kingdom when we were bleeding from inside. And you never asked for payment. Never demanded recognition.”

He gave a short breath through his nose.

“Then came the rumors. Iskandar’s peaks. The northern islands. The Holy Capital. The Imperial Academy of Valor. Every time there’s chaos, your name finds its way into the story.”

His gaze did not waver.

“You don’t move for power. You move because something needs to be fixed.”

The chamber felt smaller somehow.

“So don’t insult me by thinking I would sit back now,” Balthor finished. “Tharvaldur stands with you.”

He did not look at Noel after saying it.

He looked at Noriel.

The meaning was clear. As king, his word mattered. But Tharvaldur did not move without strategy.

Noriel held the silence for a moment longer, eyes lowered slightly in thought. Then he reached for his mug, lifted it slowly, and looked directly at Noel.

“For the fall of Roberto.”

Balthor raised his own mug without hesitation, thick fingers wrapping easily around the handle, and Noel followed a heartbeat later, the sound of glass striking glass echoing softly against stone.

The agreement was sealed.

For a few seconds after, no one spoke. The weight of what they had just decided settled into the room like heat from a forge—steady, unavoidable, shaping everything it touched.

Then Balthor exhaled and leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to shift the air.

“We’ll sort the details once we know where and when,” he said, voice returning to something closer to his usual tone. “Troop movement, supply lines, command structure. We’ll coordinate properly. If we’re stepping into this, we step in prepared.”

Noriel gave a small nod. “The Estermont communication devices arrived two weeks ago. We’ve tested them across internal districts. The connection is stable.”

Balthor glanced toward Noel. “Instant communication changes everything. No more waiting days for messengers to cross mountain passes.”

“It will make coordination cleaner,” Noriel added, fingers resting lightly against the side of his mug. “We won’t be reacting blindly.”

Noel inclined his head once. That had been part of the reason he pushed so hard for the artifacts to be implemented quickly. Armies without synchronized information bled faster than they fought.

The political foundation was laid. The military alignment had begun.

Balthor shifted again, shoulders rolling slightly as if shaking off armor he wasn’t wearing.

“Well,” he said, the edge of command softening, “since we’ve decided to possibly save the world together, let’s not sit here like statues.”

He looked directly at Noel now, eyes carrying something older than strategy.

“Tell me, lad. How’s life treating you?”

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