The vast dome of Caelmont's Hall of Concord seemed to drink in every sound. Footsteps struck the marble floor like drumbeats, their echoes curling upward into the gilded ribs of the ceiling before vanishing into the air. That air itself felt charged, as if holding its breath for the moment before a storm.
The lords of the realm were all here. Councilors in their high seats, scribes with quick quills, nobles crowding the galleries, their silks whispering in restless anticipation. Today was no ordinary hearing.
The High Oracle herself had come.
Elyria Venn sat upon the Aether Throne....an ancient seat of glass-veined marble, shimmering faintly with threads of starlight.
She was said to be centuries old, yet her form held the beauty of a woman in her prime: hair dark as midnight, skin unlined, and eyes… those eyes.
