The Great Hall had never been so silent.
The kind of silence that lived in tombs.
The kind of silence that came just before the first stone was thrown, before the first blood was spilled.
Dust hung in the air like falling ash, drifting through pale shafts of light that slanted from the towering cathedral windows.
Above, the banners of the Council swayed — vast, heavy things — the ancient crests embroidered in thread-of-blood and bone-white, hanging like nooses from the black-stone pillars.
And beneath them gathered the wolves.
Every noble.
Every priest.
Every armiger and guard.
All seated, all watching, all waiting — breath held, eyes gleaming with the hunger of a final judgment.
Ian stood in his observation alcove, shadowed but visible, a figure carved from iron.
And at the heart of it all, beneath the searing gaze of Esgard's nine thrones, stood Velrosa.
Rigid. Proud. Alone.
Her silver hair, usually flowing like riverlight, was bound tightly behind her head.
