A Divided Council

SPOILER WARNING – The Tales from Divinia are companion stories best enjoyed after reading the main novel. A Divided Council takes place between chapters six and seven of The Trials of Divinia and therefore contains spoilers.

Blurb:

A Divided Council explores the fragile balance of power within Concordia, the city of the gods. From the perspective of Lykarian, the long-serving High Emissary, the story delves into the burdens of leadership, the personal sacrifices demanded by neutrality, and the growing divisions among those tasked with upholding the gods’ will. As debate over interference in the Celestial Trials intensifies, tensions rise within the council chamber, foreshadowing conflicts yet to come.

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He was alone. Finally alone.

Lykarian collapsed gratefully into his chair in the council meeting room. He leaned back, tilting his head towards the ceiling, eyes closing tightly for several moments.

The opening ceremony had gone well, he thought. It was always hard on the young champions – being judged not only by their own god, but by all seven at once. It was like an initiation into life in Concordia, and not every visitor endured it unscathed. But this year’s group seemed strong.

There was Cassian Stormrider, arrogant even by Tempestian standards, but in his case the confidence seemed well-founded. He would be difficult to beat.

Much was being said about Orion Iceheart, the Nivalian champion. Like many of Glacius’ people, he was a man of few words, but he carried himself with focus and determination.

Calista Dawnstar, by contrast, seemed more reserved than most Luminarians – less eager to display her intellect or brilliance. That quiet humility, however, might prove to be her strength.

Kael Greenbark of Verdantia and Elara Moonshadow were more familiar types: one deeply bound to nature and its creatures, the other with her head in the realm of dreams. Yet both had shown enough to suggest they would hold their own.

Zara Lightbringer of Solaris intrigued him. She shared Cassian’s boldness, confidence, and fearlessness, but when he had spoken with her, he thought he detected the faintest trace of uncertainty. There was something unusual about her compared to Heliora’s usual champions, who tended to be gentle and softly spoken.

And then there was the wildcard – Talon Drakeforge. He had never met a Ferroxian quite like him: polite, almost timid, yet inquisitive and quietly observant. His team, too, was an odd assortment – old and young, men and women, most of them seeming as though they had never seen battle in their lives.

It should make for an interesting competition, he mused.

He had always enjoyed the week of the Celestial Trials. As High Emissary, he played a critical role in planning and overseeing the event each year. And yet, after so long in the post, he could not deny a part of him would be grateful when this one was over.

Fifteen years…

He thought back. He had been born in Luminara – a closely guarded secret. After completing his studies, he had pursued a career in politics, rising quickly. By his mid-thirties, he had been elected to the Synod of Illumination, the region’s governing council, making him one of the youngest officials in its history.

The Synod was essential to Luminarian society. It not only crafted policies by which the land was run, but also oversaw the Grand Archives, safeguarded nearly a thousand years of knowledge, managed rival academies and schools, and supported adult citizens in choosing their form of study or craft, ensuring their continuous contribution to the land’s prosperity.

Twice he had declined Luminara’s nomination to the Celestial Council. Despite the allure of working with the gods, he feared that life in Concordia would prove stifling, limiting the scope of his work.

But when the position of High Emissary became available, he could not refuse. Such an opportunity was beyond rare. When a previous incumbent’s tenure ended – whether by retirement or death – each god put forward a nominee, and he had been Athenaea’s choice.

He had only met the goddess once before the day of his nomination, the second time he refused the council seat. Her selection of him came as a great shock. Athenaea explained that she had followed his progress closely since that rejection – a rarity in itself – and had grown to admire both his work and his devotion to the Synod. He had impressed her enough for her to make him one final offer, warning he would not receive another if he let it pass him by.

The role of High Emissary was unique. As leader of the Celestial Council and chief mortal adviser to the gods, he was required to be wholly impartial. That demand came at a cost: the surrender of his citizenship and every bond to his past life. From the perspective of his friends, his family, his colleagues, he had been entirely erased. And he was warned that should he ever attempt to return, those he had once known would not remember him.

In return, he was invited to walk among the gods. Concordia became his permanent home, and he was granted near-unlimited access to its archives and resources – a prize beyond measure. He had spent almost every spare moment of the last fifteen years immersed in books, art, and histories long lost to the mortal world.

For perhaps twelve of those years, he was certain he had chosen rightly. He had been so curious, so eager, and he had learned so much. And more than that – he had formed relationships, perhaps even friendships, with the gods themselves. Only a handful in history could claim the same.

But in the last three years, the novelty had waned. The true weight of his decision had settled in. He would never return home. He would never love again, never know a bond unshaped by divine law. He would never escape Concordia, or the endless cycle of the Celestial Trials. They would outlast him.

A soft creak startled him. The door opened slightly, and he straightened in his chair. But it was only a pair of aetherbound, gliding silently into the chamber to prepare for the meeting ahead. Their pale light shimmered across the plain stone walls as they drifted to their tasks.

It was a simple room. A circular wooden table stood at its centre, eight identical chairs set evenly around it. The bare walls were adorned only with iron braziers, their flames flickering gently to provide light.

It lacked the grandeur of many other parts of Concordia – particularly the champions’ quarters, which were lavishly decorated to offer comfort between trials and to remind them of what they fought for. The council chamber was stripped of such personality, a deliberate picture of neutrality where he and his seven colleagues could meet.

This week was always the most fraught, as the councillors vied for his attention and approval. Not that he would ever grant it. His existence was functional, nothing more – a necessity to keep the trials running.

Tonight, they would gather to discuss tomorrow’s proceedings: welcoming guests from across Divinia, managing the logistics of the first trial, and ensuring final preparations for the champions and their teams. And there was one other matter – one more delicate, more dangerous – that he was not looking forward to addressing.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the door swung open once more. Midnight-blue and silver robes, so like his own, swirled into the chamber as the first of his fellow council members arrived. Relief, edged with apprehension, stirred in him as he recognised the one he had hoped for. At her shoulder gleamed the clasp of Thoros’ dragon-head emblem – the sole adornment that set her uniform apart.

Isolde Ashveil, council member for Ferroxia.

She had joined the council three years earlier, at only twenty-two – the youngest member ever elected. Striking in her dark red hair and sharp, defined features, she might have been considered beautiful, were it not for the air she carried: a constant undertone of distaste, as though everything and everyone around her fell short of her standards.

His years in the Synod had taught him what it felt like to sit among older, more senior peers. When Isolde had first joined the council, he had tried to connect with her on that shared experience. But she had remained distant, cold, and unmoved, and he had long since abandoned the hope that persistence might soften her demeanour.

He could already imagine how this conversation would go.

As High Emissary, he was sworn to protect the integrity of the trials at all costs. It was his duty to know everything that happened within Concordia in the weeks leading up to the event. Some regions – particularly Ferroxia and its long-time rival Tempestus – were notorious for bending the rules.

So, it had come as little surprise when he had observed Isolde in the early hours, leading a confused-looking Talon and his team through the silent corridors. Their destination: the Armoury of Ash and Iron.

The armoury was Thoros’ personal reserve, filled with weapons and relics never intended for mortal use. Those few that were permissible had already been transferred to the Ferroxian team’s training area ahead of their arrival. To provide access to anything else was a grave violation – one that could grant the team an unfair advantage, or worse, endanger them with hidden enchantments and divine powers beyond their comprehension.

“Isolde,” he said at last – part greeting, part summons.

Her steps slowed, though she gave no immediate reply. At last, she turned to face him, halting midway to her seat.

“Sir,” she intoned. Her voice was calm yet carried an unsettling edge. It was not customary to address the High Emissary in this way – most used his name or his title, depending on familiarity – but Isolde had always denied him even that small courtesy.

“I was hoping to speak with you before the others arrived,” he continued, choosing to ignore her pointed formality.

She raised a slight eyebrow but remained silent.

“I observed your visit to Thoros’ armoury this morning,” Lykarian said. “I must remind you that granting your team access to its contents could be construed as divine intervention. As you know, this is forbidden in the trials.”

He paused. Isolde showed no hint of remorse – no hint of emotion at all.

“What was the purpose of your visit?” he asked instead.

“To inspire. To encourage. To remind them of who they represent,” Isolde replied smoothly. “I do not believe this contravenes any of your rules.”

She lingered on the word your, her eyes narrowing.

“Not in itself, no,” he conceded. “But you cannot expect me to believe you led them away empty-handed.”

“Do you have proof of this?” she shot back.

“Not as such,” he admitted. “But…”

“But nothing.” She cut across him, her tone hardening. “Thoros acts with purpose where others hesitate. He judged his champion needed an extra push before the first trial, and through me this was granted.”

“Isolde, be reasonable,” he pleaded.

“I am being reasonable. It is you who fails to understand him. You are naïve if you think you can predict his every move – or the reasons behind them.”

He let out a weary sigh, no longer bothering to hide it.

“Take your seat, Isolde,” he said as the door swung open once more. “We will continue this another time.”

The exchange had gone exactly as he expected. She was as difficult as ever – unyielding in her loyalty to Thoros, unwilling to offer a single word more than necessary. He would need another strategy if he hoped to prevent her from interfering further.

He watched as the six remaining council members slowly filed in.

First came his begrudging understudy, Nyra Galecrest of Tempestus. Dour and gloomy as the storm clouds her people were known for, she was unusually petite for a Tempestian, her wire-rimmed glasses perched beneath a frame of greying hair. They had worked together for ten years, yet he could not recall a single conversation with her that strayed beyond the business of the council. Still, she was efficient, reliable, and – perhaps most importantly – predictable.

Next was Kaelor Frostborn of Nivalis, a giant of a man so pale he might have vanished into the glaciers of his homeland had it not been for the heavy furs draped over his robes. He had joined three years ago, alongside Isolde, and had proved an understated success. Kaelor spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were blunt and decisive, leaving little room for debate.

Then came Selora Veylan of Luminara, a woman in her mid-thirties who radiated a steady brightness he both welcomed and respected. Her tall, elegant figure and long brown hair made her striking to behold, and in the quieter moments they had shared during her six years in Concordia, he had found himself admiring her. He could never reveal his origins, but sometimes he wondered if she suspected the truth of their shared homeland.

Behind her shuffled the ancient Rowan Thistlebrook of Verdantia. Lykarian did not know exactly how old he was, nor when he had joined, and sometimes he wondered whether Rowan had been Sylvanis’ first appointment to the role and simply never left. With his long white hair and a beard that brushed his belt, Rowan had a tendency to derail meetings with rambling tangents. Yet when decisions had to be made, he was agreeable and dependable, and he got things done.

Seraphine Sunspear of Solaris followed. The newest of their number, she had been appointed only earlier this year, and these were the first trials she would oversee. Watching her enter, Lykarian thought again of Heliora’s champion, Zara – there was a certain likeness between them: young, headstrong, and a little overawed by their surroundings. Heliora had made some curious choices this year. Seraphine was less confrontational than Isolde, but she had no shortage of strong opinions, and she had already managed to irritate some of the more seasoned councillors.

Last was Aelthar Nightwhisper of Elysium, an enigma even after seven years in the chamber. His dark hair framed a face etched with sleepless eyes, and his words often came in abstractions, leaving others uncertain whether they heard prophecy or idle thought. On rare occasions, his speech was startlingly clear and focused – but those moments arrived without warning, and Lykarian had never discovered a pattern to them.

Unlike the High Emissary, the council members were free to return to their homelands when their service ended. They were even permitted visits during quieter seasons of Concordia’s year. Lykarian felt his jealousy of their freedom growing steadily with each passing year.

The councillors moved around the table to take their places beside Isolde, and Lykarian rose to his feet.

“Welcome, one and all, to our final meeting before the trials begin tomorrow,” he began. “I trust you were as pleased as I was with this evening’s opening ceremony, and that you share my anticipation for the days ahead.”

There were nods and quiet murmurs, though no one spoke.

“We have several items of business this evening,” he continued. “Final preparations for the first trial, confirming the guest list for the arena, and ensuring the champions’ letters for the second trial are ready and waiting in the Hall of Gathering.”

“They are ready,” Kaelor said at once.

“Excellent. Have the other councillors had the opportunity to review them?”

“We have,” grumbled Seraphine. “And I must say I’m not impressed. These letters are supposed to help the champions prepare. The Nivalis letter tells them nothing they don’t already know. How am I meant to support my champion if…”

“I wouldn’t worry yourself, Sera,” Nyra cut in coolly. “I’ve observed your champion in the training area. She’ll be fortunate to survive tomorrow’s trial, let alone the next. My advice would be to take it one day at a time.”

Seraphine’s face flushed, her lips parting to retort, but Lykarian spoke before she could.

“Does anyone else have any comments?” he asked.

A pause followed.

“I recall when we gave the champions no such guidance,” Rowan said slowly. “In my day, they faced the trials without so much as a whisper of advice. They should count themselves lucky we offer any help at all. Why, I remem–”

“Not especially relevant, Rowan,” Lykarian interjected gently, before the old man could wander further. He caught Selora’s quiet laugh behind her hand, and his heart swelled despite himself. “The letters are a long-established tradition. What matters is striking the right balance – offering a hint of guidance, without revealing too much.”

“Sharing is an act of connection,” Aelthar murmured. His voice carried an uneven cadence as though he were only half concentrating on what he was saying. “Oversharing is often an act of seeking. The difference lies not in how much is spoken, but in whether the words build bridges – or place a burden on the listener.”

“In other words, they’re fine,” Nyra muttered, rolling her eyes.

Seraphine opened her mouth to object but shut it again when Lykarian cast her a warning glance.

“What of tomorrow’s trial?” Lykarian asked, turning back to Rowan.

“Oh yes,” said the Verdantian with a broad smile. “Sylvanis is most pleased to host the first trial once again after young Darius’ fine victory. It has been far too long since our region tasted triumph. Darius is a remarkable boy, truly remarkable, and he has enjoyed a splendid year riding the wave of his success. Why, his return to Greenhaven was greeted with such fanfare that I have not seen the like since Sylvanis himself visited our capital several years ago. Now, of course, I accompanied him on that visit – as was my honour – and…”

Nyra coughed loudly.

Rowan blinked, startled, his eyes darting around in confusion.

“Sorry, Lykarian, what was the question?”

“Are things ready for tomorrow?” Lykarian asked, allowing himself the faintest smile despite his weariness. For all his digressions, there was something admirable about Rowan’s enthusiasm after so many years.

“Almost,” Rowan nodded. “Another pack of thornfiends is arriving from the north overnight. Sylvanis felt they should play a prominent role in the trial and that they would be a fitting test for this year’s champions on their very first day.”

“Thornfiends?” Seraphine asked nervously.

“Simple creatures,” Kaelor replied at once. “Your champion need not fear them.”

Seraphine relaxed slightly in her seat, though the tension in her face betrayed lingering nerves. Lykarian suspected she was already worrying over Zara’s readiness.

“I wouldn’t say simple,” Rowan objected. “They may not be as impressive as Verdantia’s greater beasts, that is true, but Sylvanis believed that, combined with the disorientation of the labyrinth, they will prove worthy adversaries. I can recall, when I was a boy, meeting several thornfiends during a journey to Oakrest – much further south than they usually roam. I mentioned this to your predecessor, Selora. He said he would visit me once he retired, which he did… ten years ago, or perhaps twenty… maybe twenty-five.”

“I don’t think that was my predecessor,” Selora said gently, laying a kind hand over his.

Rowan studied her for a moment.

“No, of course not,” he said at last. “You’re far too young. Time passes strangely in Concordia.”

“You can say that again,” Nyra muttered, earning a rare grin from Kaelor.

“Does anyone else have questions for Rowan?” Lykarian asked, silently hoping no one did.

“What is the escape mechanic?” Isolde said suddenly, breaking her silence. Her voice cut through the chamber like a blade. “If someone is taken by the labyrinth – how are they freed?”

Rowan stared at her blankly. Nyra sighed and picked up the explanation. 

“The walls of the labyrinth are not deadly. Anyone captured by the thorns will be held for several minutes and then released. The same is true of the lure pits – they delay a team or force them to split up, but they do not prevent anyone from reaching the end.”

Isolde inclined her head once to show she understood, while Rowan finally seemed to recover his composure.

“Ah, forgive me, Isolde. I see your meaning now,” he said. “Nyra is correct, of course – we settled that some time ago. Perhaps it was discussed in one of the meetings you were unable to attend. Perfectly understandable, of course. In my day, such vulnerabilities were never required…”

As Rowan’s words meandered on, Lykarian found his attention shifting back to Isolde. It was true she had missed several meetings this year – permissible enough, given the demands of their gods. Minutes were always circulated, and she rarely asked questions. For her to do so now was unusual. Yet if she felt any hint of embarrassment, it was hidden behind her customary mask of cool detachment.

After allowing Rowan a few more minutes of wandering thought, Lykarian finally raised a hand to silence him, eager to draw their business to a close.

“The only remaining matter is the attendees for tomorrow’s trial. At present I have…” he glanced quickly at his notes, “one hundred and twenty-two dignitaries confirmed from across Divinia. Are there any late additions?”

“It is not typical of my people to make plans so far in advance,” said Aelthar. “They will see in their dreams tonight whether the fates draw them here.”

“Not overly helpful, Aelthar,” Nyra muttered, shooting him a glare.

Aelthar only shrugged.

“We’ll reserve a few extra places, just in case,” Lykarian replied smoothly.

“The Archivist Prime will be in attendance,” Selora added, offering him an apologetic look. “He regrets the late notice – he was uncertain whether he could leave his work in time to travel east. But I received word this afternoon that he intends to combine his visit with a meeting with Athenaea.”

A knot tightened in Lykarian’s stomach.

The Archivist Prime – head of the Synod of Illumination and highest-ranking mortal in Luminara – was the true tether between the region and Athenaea, perhaps even more so than Selora’s presence on the council. It was a role Lykarian had once dreamed might be his own.

The man’s name was Ilyra Quenndral, and he had held the position for close to two decades. Lykarian remembered his appointment, remembered working alongside him during his own years in the Synod. If not for the mantle of High Emissary, Ilyra would still know him; they would have greeted one another as old friends. Instead, Lykarian would be forced to welcome him as a stranger, his past life erased by divine decree.

“Of course,” he said at last, smoothing the emotion from his voice. “Please let me know when the Archivist Prime arrives, Selora. I will ensure I am available to greet him personally before the trial begins. It has been many years since he has joined us.”

Selora smiled and inclined her head.

“Any other business?” he asked the chamber.

Silence.

“Very well. Thank you for your time. I know it has been a long day.”

As the councillors stirred to rise, he lifted a hand. 

“Before you go – let us each remember our responsibilities this week. I know you all wish your champions success. But our role is to observe, to report, and above all to ensure a level playing field. Whatever our allegiances, it is the impartiality of this council that gives the trials their legitimacy.”

His eyes slid to Isolde as he finished – he could not help himself. 

She blinked back at him, her expression unreadable.

Murmurs rose as the councillors filed out, their robes whispering against the stone as the chamber emptied.

The door swung open and closed six times. Nyra, with only a stiff nod in Lykarian’s direction, was the last to leave. She made no effort to acknowledge the one council member who remained seated.

Isolde. He needed more time to think of his next move.

“Did you want something?” he asked, eager to be alone.

Her face twisted into a smile devoid of warmth. It made his skin crawl.

“I see no point in continuing our earlier conversation,” he said sharply. “You will not tell me what I wish to know. I will simply send the aetherbound to search your team’s quarters before the trial in the morning and ensure they carry no banned items.”

“You are from Luminara,” she said abruptly, ignoring his words.

His heart lurched in his chest. How could she know?

“I…” he began.

“Do not deny it,” she spat. “I have suspected for some time. I have watched you – how you run these meetings like a good little politician, how you cling to your rules, how you pine after the woman you can never have.”

“Isolde…” His hands gripped the desk before him to stop their trembling.

“You have always been a weak leader,” she pressed on. “Now I understand why. It is not in the nature of a Luminarian to lead. I once thought you might be Verdantian, given you let that old fool linger year after year. But then you allowed Nyra to answer the question on the labyrinth’s mechanics. And your reaction to the news about the glorified record-keeper coming here? There was only one possibility left.”

“If this truth were revealed,” Lykarian said hoarsely, “it would undo everything. The trials. The balance. Old rivalries would flare again – Tempestus, Verdantia, their people would be furious if they thought someone from Luminara led this council. I have kept this secret for fifteen years…”

He stopped. Realisation dawned on him.

“What do you want?”

Isolde’s smile returned, colder than before.

“You will not interfere,” she said simply. “You will let Thoros’ will play out unchallenged.”

“And if I do not?” he asked.

“Then you will live to regret it,” she promised.

“Please go, Isolde,” he managed.

She rose without another word and stalked from the room without looking back.

He was alone again.

Yet his head felt heavier than before.

He had kept his secret for fifteen years. It had taken Isolde just three to see through him.

Of course it had – she had watched and waited, choosing the moment when there could be no argument. To reveal any part of his former life was forbidden; his choices were now either to face the consequences of exposure or to live under her dominion until he did.

One more week, he thought. Just one more week, then I can walk away.

There could be no future for him in Concordia after this. He knew little of what happened to High Emissaries who left their posts – only that he had never met any of his predecessors, and no one, not even Rowan, spoke of them.

He closed his eyes and let the memories come. He had grown practised at pushing them away, but tonight he gave in.

He thought of his parents, his childhood, and his education. He thought of his work in the Synod, the friends he had made, and the boundless knowledge he had pursued. He thought of Selora and of a future he would never have.

One more week.

He rose and walked to the door.

Whatever happened, whoever won, this year’s trials would be his last.

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