Yava walked through Albion’s capital with the guards escorting him—Dael beside him, still hugging his newly purchased spice chest like a priceless artifact.

  The Council of Roots towered ahead, a colossal tree whose interior had been hollowed into a spiraling hall of vines, wooden balconies, and roots woven like living pillars.

  Ten representatives awaited inside—each wearing robes dyed in the colors of their province.

  Half were calm, respectful, traditional.

  The other half…

  Their eyes gleamed too sharply.

  Their robes glittered with gold-thread patterns not common to Albion.

  Dael leaned closer and whispered,

  “Fox, try not to break a table.”

  “I will not break any table,” Yava murmured.

  “You might flip it.”

  “…Perhaps.”

  The representatives motioned to the center stone platform.

  “Divine Merchant Yava,” the Speaker announced.

  “We welcome you. Albion faces uncertain days. We seek counsel… and clarity.”

  The Opening Statements

  A druid-elder stepped forward—one of the Architect’s loyal supporters.

  “Eryndor’s movements have grown troubling,” he said.

  “Our scouts see increased naval smoke, caravans of iron, and patrols near the northern rivers.”

  An elf councilor added softly,

  “They prepare for war.”

  A gold-robed councilor spoke next, too loudly:

  “We’ve heard they gather twenty thousand soldiers—and even the Storm Rider elite under General Serath—”

  The hall froze.

  Yava lifted an eyebrow.

  “With respect, elder… how do you know those numbers?”

  The man blinked rapidly.

  “I—I heard rumors—nothing more—”

  Yava’s tone stayed gentle, polite.

  “Rumors do not include exact troop counts,” he said.

  “Or the deployment of specific elite units.”

  The man paled instantly.

  Dael muttered,

  “Ohhh that’s a bad slip.”

  Several representatives whispered sharply.

  The man’s faction shifted uneasily.

  Yava continued, voice steady:

  “No scout has returned with such intelligence.

  No merchant crossed Eryndor’s inner gates lately.

  Yet you speak as though briefed.”

  The gold-robed councilor took a step back.

  Another grabbed his sleeve in panic.

  The damage was done.

  The council had witnessed the slip.

  And the source of corruption among them.

  The Speaker cleared his throat shakily.

  “Divine Merchant… your assessment?”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Yava’s steps were calm as he approached the council table.

  His Galaxy Eyes dimmed like distant starlight.

  “Eryndor prepares not for a raid,” he said.

  “But for velocity.

  Quick conquest.

  A strike meant to overwhelm Albion before you can gather strength.”

  He paced slowly.

  “They have increased iron production by thirty percent in two months.

  Their naval yards are active day and night.

  Their caravans move without rest.”

  A dwarf councilor flinched.

  “And General Serath Valen…” Yava continued,

  “…will march personally.”

  Dael shuddered.

  “That guy again. He never sleeps.”

  Murmurs spread.

  The Speaker gripped the edge of the table.

  “Divine Merchant… what do you propose?”

  The Divine Merchant’s Warning

  “Albion,” Yava said,

  “is not facing a skirmish.”

  He paced slowly, eyes moving across each councilor.

  “You are facing a full-scale invasion.”

  He pointed at the corrupted faction.

  “And some among you already know this.”

  The gold-robed men stepped back in fear.

  “Eryndor intends to crush Albion’s independence,” Yava continued.

  “They failed twice before—

  But this time, Serath Valen will march personally.”

  The room tensed.

  “The Storm General?” a councilwoman whispered.

  Dael exhaled.

  “Yeah. The big scary one.”

  “He will come with the Storm Riders,” Yava said.

  “A squad capable of tearing through forests and walls.”

  The traditional councilors bowed their heads in dread.

  Yava’s Term

  “Evacuate your civilians,” Yava said.

  “Deep underground. Strengthen your shelters.”

  He pointed to the bribed faction.

  “Remove these individuals from sensitive decisions.”

  The corrupted men trembled.

  Then he placed a hand over his sleeve.

  “Hire me.

  Hire Dael.

  And hire my three students.”

  A councilor whispered, shocked:

  “Dael? The chef?”

  Dael raised his spice chest proudly.

  “I cook, I punch, I heal. And sometimes I intimidate vegetables.”

  Yava continued:

  “We fight only if Albion fights to remain free.

  For the world is shifting.

  And neutrality is no longer shelter—it is bait.”

  Silence filled the hall.

  Heavy.

  Real.

  Consequential.

  The Architect’s Messenger

  A huge root along the hall split open suddenly—

  Vines spiraled aside—

  Revealing an armored sentinel with glowing blue lines along his gauntlets.

  A representative of the Divine Architect.

  He bowed deeply toward Yava.

  “Divine Merchant,” he said.

  “The Architect requests your presence.”

  The entire council gasped.

  Dael muttered,

  “Oh crap. The Architect wants the Fox personally.”

  The sentinel turned to the council.

  “And he says this:

  ‘Prepare for siege.

  And trust the merchant.’”

  Yava’s eyes narrowed faintly.

  “So… he already knows.”

  Of course he did.

  The Council bowed.

  The hall quieted, but tension coiled like a living thing.

  The Speaker, wiping sweat from his brow, cleared his throat.

  “In accordance with Albion’s law… a formal decision must be reached.”

  The Speaker raised the ceremonial bowl.

  “Council of Roots — cast your judgment.”

  One by one, the representatives stepped forward.

  The druid elder laid his token first, firm and resolute.

  The elf counselor followed, then the dwarf, then the beastfolk matron whose eyes burned with conviction.

  Tokens clinked into the bowl—

  not hesitantly,

  but with growing momentum.

  Even the commerce delegate, after a long trembling pause, finally stepped forward and dropped his token with a quiet, ashamed bow.

  Only the corrupted faction hesitated—

  but under the weight of the Architect’s sentinel’s stare,

  they lowered their heads and submitted their votes as well.

  The Speaker lifted the bowl.

  Every token inside glowed the same color.

  “Unanimous,” he announced.

  The hall exhaled as one.

  “Albion accepts your counsel, Divine Merchant.”

  Dael leaned toward Yava and whispered,

  “Deadlock.”

  Yava’s Galaxy Eyes glimmered faintly.

  “Expected.”

  The Speaker steadied himself.

  “In times of stalemate… our eleventh voice shall decide.”

  A hush fell.

  The great tree’s bark split once more as light poured through cracks of living wood.

  A sentinel stepped forward—the Architect’s chosen messenger, vines coiling around his armor.

  He placed a single glowing blue stone into the bowl.

  The bowl erupted in soft light.

  The decision was made.

  “Albion,” the Speaker declared with trembling relief,

  “will defend itself.”

  The gold-robed bribed councilors paled.

  The Architect’s sentinel turned to Yava and bowed.

  “The Divine Architect says:

  ‘Prepare for battle.’

  And…”

  his eyes glowed faintly,

  “‘Trust the merchant.’”

  Dael groaned quietly.

  “Oh stars… the Architect really said that.”

  Yava exhaled.

  “I will meet him.”

  The elders bowed deeply—

  even the corrupt ones, for their masks were cracking.

  Yava stepped down the stone dais, robes whispering like soft wind.

  Dael followed, clutching his spice chest.

  “Fox,” he muttered,

  “this is going to get wild.”

  Yava didn’t argue.

  “It always does.”

  “Divine Merchant,” the Speaker said shakily,

  “We accept your terms.”

  Yava nodded.

  Dael whispered behind his sleeve.

  “Fox… this is going to be one hell of a battle.”

  Yava’s reply was calm.

  “Let's give Serath a hell.”

  Dael smiles widely, even the trio look serious today.

  "I have a battle plan in mind, let's prepare for it now! Time is essence." told Yava to everyone there.

  End of Chapter 10 part 2