The Council chamber was colder than it should have been.
Not from weather—the brazier pits burned bright, and the sunlight through the high stained-glass windows spilled red-gold across the long table—but from the people within it.
Lyra could feel it the moment she stepped inside. The heat in the air wasn't welcome warmth—it was the tight, oppressive heat of too many tempers barely held in check.
Kael followed two paces behind her, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. His storm had been quiet all morning, but not from peace—quiet like a deep sea before a sudden wave. Thorne flanked her other side, all blunt lines and watchful eyes.
The nobles were already seated. Gold-threaded robes rustled as heads turned. She saw a dozen glances pass between them, as fast and sharp as thrown daggers.
At the far end, the High Priestess rose. She was tall, her silver tattoos glinting faintly in the firelight, her eyes as pale as winter moonlight.
