Emery had never been in a war council before.
She had imagined them sometimes during the long nights in the palace. She pictured Zekar surrounded by scarred warriors, maps spread across heavy tables, voices raised in fierce argument. Yet imagining it was nothing like standing here.
The room felt too warm, too crowded, too full of sharp eyes that kept sliding in her direction. Generals and elders from all four tribes sat around the long stone table, their faces carved by years she could scarcely imagine. Torvin, the Zathrîkul general, bore a scar that split his eyebrow and left him looking permanently angry. Thea, the Khursaga representative, had hands stained red from some dye Emery did not recognize and eyes that missed nothing. Others she knew only by sight. Druvkaur warriors. Velanthri elders. Faces she had glimpsed in passing but never spoken to.
She did not belong here.
Zekar's hand found hers beneath the table.
