The walk down the winding roots of the Feline Spire was quieter than the night before. The chaotic jubilation had died down into a tense, thrumming anticipation. The tribe was holding its collective breath, waiting to see what kind of phantom the "Divine One" would pull from the Shamanic Grove.
As they walked side-by-side, Sol's mind was not on the spiritual weight of the Rite. It was indexing the political landscape he had witnessed in the High Hall.
He had seen the way Elder Thorne looked at him… like a man calculating the exact weight of a threat and determining the sharpest knife needed to cut it out. He had seen the naked, entitled greed in Korash's eyes.
