The Circle's chamber was heavy with expectation. Armand sat at the table, his blade resting before him, its hum steady. Yet beneath that calm rhythm, another whisper stirred — faint, unfamiliar, darker.
Grace Johnson noticed his unease. "What is it?" she asked quietly.
Armand hesitated. "The whisper… it's different. It's not warning me. It's… questioning."
The elder leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Questioning what?"
Armand swallowed hard. "Whether the Circle is telling me the truth."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. The knives on the table hummed louder, as if reacting to his words. Grace's gaze tightened, her voice firm. "Don't let Wright's poison twist you. The whispers guide us."
But the darker voice inside Armand's blade pressed harder. They hide things. Secrets. Lies.
He clenched his fist, fighting the pull. "What if Wright was right? What if the whispers aren't guardians, but chains?"
The elder's expression hardened. "Enough. Doubt is the weapon of the Severed Tongues. Do not let it take root."
Grace reached for his hand, steadying him. "Listen to me, Armand. Trust your blade. Trust me."
But the darker whisper surged again, louder this time. And for the first time, Armand wondered if the Circle itself was hiding something far more dangerous than Wright's rebellion.