The Weak Prince Is A Cultivation God

The Anchor was not a place one stumbled upon.

It stood upon the last sane cliff before the land tore itself open into the shimmering chaos of the Endless Expanse. White spires jutted from obsidian foundations, each crowned with crystal arrays that beat with slow, heartbeat light.

Winds rolled in from the magical wasteland beyond, carrying whispers that no one dared translate.

To the west, leagues of barren land kept it hidden from wandering eyes. No merchant caravan traveled so far, no army marched here. The Anchor was the Aurelion Spire — fortress, city, and prison for powers too dangerous to be left wandering the world.

It was here that the League of Obscura gathered.

Every member knew the stories — most did not speak them aloud. Four hundred twenty-seven years ago, the Architect of the End, Vaelith, had walked out of the Hollow Strait and into history.

His magic, they said, could erase more than life; it could erase the memory of life. An entire kingdom, its name, its borders, its songs — gone in a single day.

Before vanishing into the far east, he had left the League with his final mandate:

"Gather the pillars, and hold the horizon steady, for the sea is not yet ready to drown the land."

The League took this to mean one thing — their purpose was containment. They would not rule. They would not conquer. They would watch, quietly, and ensure no threat — not from the East, not from the West — could shatter the fragile balance.

It was a philosophy that made them feared without ever lifting a blade. Kings whispered of them in council chambers. Mages in far-off academies spoke their name in the same tone one might reserve for a knife in the dark.

The highest authority within the League was the Council of Six — mages of the 11th and 12th Circle, each a "Pillar" in the Architect's design. They were disasters of form, and they rarely gathered.

Tonight, five of them sat around a circular table carved from a single piece of pale stone, written with runes older than the kingdoms of the West.

Aurelith, the Silent, face half-hidden by a porcelain mask, her hands folded. No one knew the last time she had spoken aloud.

Morvain, the Red Eclipse, robed in crimson so deep it drank the lamplight.

Ishara, Keeper of the Last Flame, whose hair burned like a candle's edge, a fire that did not consume her.

Kaelor, the Storm That Waits, a gaunt man smelling faintly of sea-salt, eyes like brewing thunderheads.

Drazhar, Architect's Heir, the only one of them who still wore the sigil of Vaelith openly.

The sixth, Nyss Verath, was absent — somewhere in the living forest she commanded, deep in the eastern wilds.

A single silver chair sat empty for her.

The double doors at the far end opened without ceremony. A lone man entered, clad in the simple leathers of a western courier.

His boots were travel-worn, his cloak scorched at the hem. He carried a sealed letter bound in black cord — a binding reserved for matters of continental urgency.

Two of the League's outer circle mages escorted him in, then withdrew without a word.

The courier stopped before the table and dropped to one knee.

"Speak," Drazhar said.

The man's voice was rough, strained by days of hard riding. "Masters… I bring word from the Solaris Kingdom. The West burns."

There was no reaction from the Council. Not a twitch. Not a flicker of magic.

Morvain leaned back in his chair. "The West is always burning."

The courier swallowed. "This is different. The capital sends word — their lands are falling to the Fourth Prince, Lanard. Westerloch is ash, their ships burn in the harbors, and the king calls him the 'god of the north.' His army… grows."

Kaelor's gaze turned toward the horizon beyond the glass wall of the chamber. "And?"

The man hesitated. "The king… invokes the Hundred-Year Favor."

That made them still.

The Hundred-Year Favor was not a myth, not to them. It had been granted by the League itself to the Solaris Kingdom exactly a century ago — payment for an act now known only to the Council of Six. It was a single promise: one request, one action, no questions asked, no matter the cost.

Drazhar's expression did not change, but the air seemed heavier around him. "So the time comes at last."

Ishara's flame hair flickered higher. "I'd hoped they'd waste it on something petty. A dynasty squabble. A famine. But no — they save it for a warlord prince."

"Not just a prince," Morvain said. "Blood of their own blood. Interesting."

Aurelith said nothing, of course. But her gaze shifted from one speaker to another, and those who knew her swore her silence was never empty — it was a net, gathering the shape of every word.

Kaelor drummed his fingers against the stone table. "The West burns itself every few decades. Why should we care which son wears the crown at the end?"

Drazhar replied, "Because they've invoked the Favor. The First Edict compels us to respond when such a pact is called."

Morvain smirked faintly. "The First Edict compels you. I would sooner watch them drown."

"And if the drowning spills east?" Drazhar's tone was calm. "If his ambition does not stop at Solaris?"

Ishara shrugged. "Then I burn him where he stands."

Morvain gave her a sidelong look. "Your flames will feed on him, yes… but at the cost of a city. Or three."

The courier's head lowered further. "Masters… the king said only this: Handle it swiftly and silently."

The chamber was quiet for a time, the only sound the faint hum of the wards running through the table.

Finally, Drazhar turned to the others. "The request is clear. The Favor binds us. We must send someone."

Kaelor's gaze sharpened. "Not one of us of course. This is a small matter for the Outer Circle. Precision, not storms and fire."

Morvain's mouth curved faintly. "Then send the shadow."

All eyes turned, briefly, to the empty air at the edge of the room — as if expecting a figure to step out from it.

Drazhar nodded once. "Karahad."

The name seemed to taste of iron and winter. Karahad was not the strongest mage in the League, but he was the quietest. A 8th Circle operative, unseen until the moment his work was done.

The West had no record of him because no one left alive ever saw him.

Kaelor's voice was a low rumble. "Tell him the same as the king told us: swiftly and silently. No towers falling into the sea. No storms blacking the coast. This is not a war. It is a correction."

Ishara tilted her head. "And if he fails?"

Drazhar looked at her evenly. "Do you ever stop with your jokes?"

She smiled.

The courier bowed low. "I will carry your word."

Two Outer Circle mages stepped forward again, guiding the man back toward the doors. He paused just before stepping out.

"What should I tell the king?" he asked.

Drazhar did not look up from the map now hovering in front of him, its glowing rivers and mountains rippling faintly with magic.

"Tell him," Drazhar said, "the League remembers its debts."

The courier bowed once more, then was gone.

The doors closed with a soft thud, leaving the Council in silence.

Kaelor was the first to speak. "You think this Karahad will solve the West's problem?"

"I think," Drazhar said, "that he will solve our problem—an unpaid debt. The West's problem is its own."

Morvain gave a thin smile. "The Architect would be amused. We send a shadow to snuff a flame before it touches the horizon."

Aurelith finally moved — only to rise, her porcelain mask turning toward the window that faced the Expanse. Without a word, she left the chamber, her footsteps soundless against the stone.

Ishara's flames dimmed to embers. "If Karahad does not return, we will all be dragged into this war anyway."

She wasn't joking this time.

Drazhar did not answer. Instead, he touched the table's central sigil, extinguishing the runes until the chamber was swallowed in shadow.

Outside, beyond the wards and the cliffs, the Aurelion Spire stood against the endless night — silent, waiting, as it had for centuries.