The torches of the Hall of Embers guttered and flared like lungs struggling for breath. Smoke gathered under the ribs of the stone vaults, and the scent of char and incense clung to every robe, every weapon, every whisper. The chamber had once been a temple to fire—now it was a council room for those who feared it.
Ryon stood at the head of the long table, hands resting on the black-oak surface. Beneath his palms, heat pulsed faintly, as though the wood itself remembered the flames that forged it. His cloak was torn at the hem from the march through the ruins of Maris Vale, but his posture remained unbent. The others were still arriving: warlocks from the southern fortresses, witches from the border covens, and the three remaining arch-sorcerers who had not yet fled the realm.
