The council chamber smelled faintly of old cedar and extinguished fire.
It was not a room meant for comfort.
It was a room meant for judgment.
Elara stood near the long stone table, acutely aware of how the silence here differed from the silence of the corridors. This quiet was deliberate — sharpened, listening.
Ancient.
She resisted the urge to fidget.
This is absurd, she told herself. You're standing in a medieval tribunal pretending to be modern.
Her fingers curled into her sleeves.
Footsteps echoed.
Measured. Unhurried.
Elder Vittorio entered without announcement, his dark coat falling in severe lines that suggested both austerity and quiet power. His silver hair was brushed straight back, revealing a face carved by discipline rather than age.
His gaze fell upon Elara.
Cold. Assessing.
Unmoved.
"Child," he said.
The word did not feel affectionate.
Elara lifted her chin. "I have a name."
One brow rose slightly, as if the response amused him.
