The night air stank of smoke and steel. It clung heavy in the throat, acrid as if the storm itself had dragged up old ashes from the roots of the earth. A low mist crawled through the underbrush, pale and restless, veiling the hunters' silhouettes as they moved between the trees.
Their armor was dull black, lacquered not to shine but to swallow moonlight, as though even the night itself had been taught to fear their passage. No banners marked them, no emblems caught the eye. The only sigil was hidden where no one could see: the faint etching of the Council's seal carved into the inside of their vambraces, pressed cold against flesh. Their oath was written not for display, but for the weight of skin and blood.
