The Assembly Hall's interior was a study in understated authority. High vaulted ceilings supported by carved stone pillars created an atmosphere of permanence and gravitas, while tall windows filtered afternoon sunlight into precise geometric patterns across the polished marble floor. Tapestries depicting the village's history adorned the walls—scenes of founding, prosperity, and careful isolation that spoke to generations of successful secrecy.
At the far end of the hall, three figures sat behind a curved table of dark oak that had been positioned to maximize their imposing presence. They did not need to speak or move to command attention; their very existence seemed to bend the room's atmosphere around them like stones dropped into still water.
The woman on the left was perhaps seventy, with silver hair pulled back in an intricate braid that spoke of vanity carefully maintained despite her age. Her robes were deep blue, cut in a style that suggested wealth and position, and her pale hands rested motionless on the table's surface. When she looked at Aeon, her gray eyes held the calculating coldness of someone who had made difficult decisions for decades without flinching.
The man in the center commanded the space through sheer physical presence despite his seated position. Broad shoulders filled out robes of forest green, and his weathered hands were scarred from what looked like a lifetime of combat. His beard was white as snow, but his dark eyes burned with an intensity that suggested his fighting days were far from over. Everything about him radiated controlled violence—a predator at rest but ready to strike.
The third elder, positioned on the right, was the most unsettling of the three. Thin to the point of gauntness, with pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones, he wore simple gray robes that somehow made him appear more rather than less intimidating. His fingers were steepled before him, and when he blinked it was with the deliberate slowness of a reptile. There was something fundamentally wrong about the way he occupied space, as if reality bent slightly around his presence.
But it was their collective aura that truly dominated the hall.
Without activating any magical abilities, without speaking a word, the three elders projected an almost physical weight of authority and power that pressed against Aeon's consciousness like a crushing tide. These were not people who had simply been elected to leadership positions—they were forces of nature who had shaped this community through decades of unwavering will and absolute competence.
Standing in their presence felt like being evaluated by apex predators who were deciding whether he qualified as threat, prey, or curiosity.
In the corner of the room, almost lost in the shadows cast by the pillars, a small figure sat surrounded by four guards. A child, perhaps eight or nine years old, with dark hair and wide eyes that tracked Aeon's movement with unsettling intensity. The guards around the child were alert but not aggressive, suggesting protection rather than restraint, but their positioning made it clear that this young observer was somehow significant to the proceedings.
Captain Henrik guided Aeon to a position roughly ten feet from the elders' table, then stepped back to join the other guards lining the walls. The sound of footsteps faded, leaving only the whisper of cloth and the barely audible breathing of the assembled watchers.
And then, silence.
It stretched on for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, an oppressive weight that seemed designed to break composure and force hasty words. The elders did not move, did not speak, did not even seem to blink as they studied him with the patience of stones. Aeon could feel sweat beginning to form beneath his bandages despite the cool air of the hall.
The woman's eyes catalogued every detail of his appearance with clinical precision. The warrior's gaze seemed to weigh his potential as both ally and enemy. The gaunt man's attention felt like being dissected by someone who understood exactly how fragile human beings truly were.
The pressure was working. Aeon could feel his heart rate increasing, his breathing becoming slightly labored despite his best efforts to remain calm. These people had turned silence into a weapon, and they wielded it with masterful efficiency.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the woman spoke.
"You claim to have awakened an attribute called 'infinity.'" Her voice was cultured and precise, each word chosen for maximum impact. "In one hundred and fifty years of isolation, we have never encountered such a thing. Explain to us why we should believe you are not lying, despite the truth compulsion's confirmation."
The question was a trap disguised as a request for clarification. They knew he couldn't lie under the scroll's influence, but they were testing whether he would try to elaborate in ways that might reveal deception or dangerous intent. One wrong word, one hint that he posed a threat they couldn't control, and his head would indeed go flying.
"I can't explain why such an attribute exists," Aeon replied carefully, "only that it does. I didn't choose it, and I don't fully understand it. But I can demonstrate its reality if you require proof."
The warrior leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes boring into Aeon's soul. "You escaped from a slave camp that was attacked by goblins. You survived injuries that should have killed you. You found a village that has remained hidden for generations." His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "What force or faction sent you to discover our location, and what were your instructions upon making contact?"
Another trap, this one more direct. They were giving him the opportunity to confess to being a spy or advance scout, which would justify immediate execution. But they were also probing for connections to larger threats that might follow in his wake.
"No one sent me," Aeon answered, meeting the warrior's gaze steadily. "I escaped alone, fell into your river by accident, and had no knowledge this village existed until I woke up in your healer's care. If anyone had wanted to find you deliberately, they would have sent someone better prepared and less injured."
The gaunt man finally spoke, his voice a whisper that somehow carried perfectly throughout the hall. "You possess unknown power. You have breached our security through means we do not understand. You represent a variable that could disrupt the careful balance we have maintained for generations." He paused, letting the implications sink in. "Convince us that allowing you to live serves our interests better than removing the threat you represent."
This was the real question, the one that would determine his fate. They weren't asking whether he was dangerous—they had already concluded that he was. They were asking him to justify his continued existence in terms that prioritized their community's survival over his individual life.
Aeon took a breath, knowing that his next words might be his last.
"Because keeping me alive gives you options that killing me doesn't," he said quietly. "You don't know what my attribute can do, which means you don't know what opportunities it might create or what threats it might help you face. Execute me now, and you'll never know whether you just eliminated a potential asset in favor of maintaining an illusion of safety that my very presence has already shattered."
The three elders exchanged glances that communicated volumes in mere seconds. Decades of working together had given them a form of silent language that excluded everyone else in the room.
The woman nodded once to her companions, then turned back to face Aeon.
"We have come to our decision."