Somewhere in the Empire, deep underground, where purple letters and carvings of words that felt foreign to the world itself were painted along stone, a large table waited. It hosted a gathering of silhouettes, the light low and the air heavy with intent. The room smelled faintly of old incense and iron. When they leaned forward, the carvings seemed to drink the sound of their voices.
Though most of the figures were human in outline, others wore shapes that betrayed varied origins, beasts with extra limbs, forms too tall or too wide. Some were furry and feral, but all sat with the sort of patience that comes from long conspiracies. The treacherous fanged werewolf was first to break the silence. He slammed his fist on the table, making the other faces turn.
"YOU SHOULD HAVE COME WITH US!" he howled.
His fury was animal and precise. The words were not only complaint but accusation, heavy and loud in the subterranean hush. The slamming echoed down the chamber.
