The parchment on the table lay blank, its pristine surface a stark void amid the clutter of quills, inkwells, and crumpled ledger scraps. That emptiness rang louder than the murmurs rippling through the chamber, louder than the faint scratch of charcoal on paper or the groan of oaken chairs as advisors shifted, their boots scuffing the stone floor worn smooth by years of restless pacing. The walls of Emberhold's council room, once alive with the clang of swords and urgent war cries, now bore a different weight—a silence heavy with anticipation, the stillness before a foundation stone is laid. Beyond the arched windows, the wind sighed through the stronghold's outer baileys, carrying the distant clatter of forge hammers and the sharp scent of pine smoke curling from the chimneys.
Alexander stood at the head of the table, arms folded over his broad chest, his steel-gray eyes locked on that blank parchment as if willing it to ignite and etch its own destiny. The fire in the hearth behind him crackled low, its embers casting a dance of flickering shadows across the council's faces, painting their features in hues of amber and dusk—Elias's sharp jaw, Gareth's bristling beard, Silas's furrowed brow, Owen's blunt curiosity, and Voss's hawkish gaze. The air hung thick with the musk of melted wax from dripping candles and the faint, bitter tang of ink drying on scattered scrolls.
"Taxation requires law," Silas said, his voice cutting through the quiet, echoing a truth they'd circled in their last gathering. He leaned forward, his long fingers splaying on the table's grainy edge. "And law, if it's to rise above threats and tradition, demands codification. Structure. Not just enforcement—but legitimacy."
Lord Harland Voss tapped the table with a silver-ringed finger, the sound a crisp staccato against the wood's deep polish. "We've built an economy, secured trade, started loans. But coin only works if people trust the system behind it. When disputes flare—contracts, property, unpaid debts—who decides?"
"A court," Elias said bluntly, his arms crossed, shoulder braced against the wall's cool, rough stone. "Judges. Rules. Obvious."
"Which ones?" Silas pressed, his quill twitching in his grip. "Kingdom law? Guild codes? Temple edicts? We can't just stitch together old bones from broken carcasses."
"We'll need our own," Alexander said, his voice steady as the hearth's glow. "Written. Transparent. Enforceable."
He glanced at the parchment again, its blankness a challenge. "And we start here."
A pause thickened the air, broken by Gareth clearing his throat, a rough rasp that stirred the stillness. "So, what's the first law?"
"The first?" Elias smirked, his teeth glinting faintly. "Don't murder your neighbor?"
"That's the sixth in most codes," Silas muttered, his eyes flicking to a ledger's edge.
They chuckled—a brief ripple of sound that faded fast.
Owen spoke up then, scratching the back of his neck, his broad fingers rasping against stubble. "What about land rights? Half the outlying farms squat on public plots. If the Dominion claims the land, who settles it? Passes it to their sons? What if two families brawl over a stream?"
"That's why we codify," Silas said, flipping open a worn ledger, its leather spine creaking, pages yellowed and curling. "Start with property—ownership, usage, disputes. Then contracts—labor, trade, construction. Follow with criminal law: theft, assault, debt default. Build from the practical outward."
"We'll need tiers," Voss added, his velvet cloak rustling as he shifted. "Low-level disputes settled locally. High-level cases—fraud, violence, territory—brought to Emberhold."
"Local courts then," Elias said, his voice sharp against the wind's low moan outside. "Magistrates in villages, outposts. Rotating oversight from the central court."
"And who appoints them?" Owen asked, his blunt gaze swinging to Alexander, a faint crease in his brow.
"Eventually," Alexander said, his tone measured, "they'll be chosen by law, not decree. For now, I choose—until the code says otherwise."
Voss's lips curved in a dry smile, his rings glinting. "Practical monarchy, with a sunset clause."
"We're still building," Alexander said, his shadow stretching across the table. "Centralize now—so we can decentralize later."
Silas nodded slowly, his quill resuming its soft scratch. "We can structure it. Civil Code. Criminal Code. Administrative Code. All Dominion-born—not borrowed scraps."
"I know someone," Elias said suddenly, pushing off the wall, his boots thudding faintly. "Old Kingdom clerk, Halwin. Defected during the war—works minor contracts near the southern mills. Drafted legal frames for three provinces. Knows the old code cold."
"Bring him in," Alexander said, his voice firm as the stone beneath them. "Give him a desk and silence."
"He'll argue if we don't let him," Elias muttered, a smirk tugging his lip.
"That's fine," Alexander said. "We're building law, not a sermon."
As the meeting stretched into hours, ink bled onto the first parchment, staining its blankness with purpose. Topics rose like sparks: land usage registration, tenant protections, theft thresholds, restitution tiers. Silas sketched an evidence system, his quill darting over paper, while Voss proposed fines tied to earnings, his voice clipped and precise. Gareth, surprisingly, leaned in, his rough hands splaying on the table. "Labor redress over prison—community work, not isolation. A young Dominion can't waste hands behind walls. We need redemption, not rot."
By mid-afternoon, five fresh pages sprawled across the table, their edges curling in the hearth's heat—the beginnings of something tangible, etched in black and resolve.
Then Silas paused, quill hovering, ink beading at its tip. "One matter we haven't raised," he said, his voice dropping, heavy with portent. "Something deeper than codes or fines."
All eyes lifted.
"If we're crafting a legal system, what stops it from becoming the Kingdom's? Serving the crown, not the citizen?"
"You want limits," Voss said quietly, his gaze piercing the haze of candle smoke. "On us."
"I want structure," Silas replied, his fingers tightening on the quill. "Not just rules for them, but rules on our power—what we can and cannot do."
Alexander leaned forward, the table's edge pressing into his palms, his shadow merging with the hearth's glow.
"You're speaking of a declaration."
Silas nodded, his breath fogging faintly in the cooling air. "A Charter. Rights—basic protections. Property. Representation. Due process. If we're to lead this Dominion into something better, we must be bound by more than our own will."
Elias frowned, his arms tightening. "We're barely holding the walls. You want to carve limits into our authority?"
"I want us to be better than the world we fled."
The silence stretched long and heavy, the hearth's embers hissing softly, the wind's wail threading through the chamber's cracks.
Alexander stared into the fire, its coals glowing red and stubborn beneath a shroud of ash, heat pulsing against his back.
He turned back, his gaze sweeping the table. "Then we draft not just law," he said, voice low, certain, resonating like a struck bell. "But a constitution."
Silas looked down at the fresh page, ink still wet at its edges, glistening in the firelight.
"And the first line?" he asked, his voice a whisper against the quiet.
Alexander picked up the quill, its feather trembling faintly in his grip, the nib dark with promise.
Then, without speaking, he pressed it to the page, the soft scratch of ink on vellum echoing in the stillness.