The chamber of the Inner Council was no mere hall; it was a cathedral of stone and silence, a tomb where secrets were not buried but preserved, sharpened, and given voices of their own.
The ceiling arched so high that no torchlight ever reached it, a canopy swallowed by darkness. Vast pillars lined the chamber, each one carved with an unbroken spiral of names and numbers, marks of judgment stretching back through centuries. On the nearest column, the latest etching read 361 years, and still the stone had space enough to devour another millennium of decrees.
Braziers burned low at the base of every pillar, the flames spitting more smoke than light. Their glow painted the floor in restless shapes, shadows that writhed and merged as though alive. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of ink, melted wax, scorched parchment, and the faint tang of blood dried on steel.
