The air in Sirion's private study was thick with the scent of old parchment, beeswax, and the heavy, metallic tang. It was a room designed for the weight of history, its walls lined with the chronicles of the Dravik line. Tall, arched windows overlooked the frosted pines of the estate, but today, the curtains were drawn tight, focusing the room's energy on the three figures within.
Sirion stood by the fireplace, the firelight catching the silver in his hair, making him look like a statue of weathered flint. He held a heavy, wax-sealed invitation in his hand, an ancient scroll that smelled of musk and wild earth.
"The moon reaches its zenith in three nights, Darien," Sirion said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards. "The Annual Gathering is not merely a tradition. It is the pulse of our kind. They are coming to the Great Valley to see if the Draviks are still the apex, or if the rumors of our 'human distractions' have made us soft and toothless."
