The light in Halftide had shifted.
It was the hour of the dome's dim cycle, when the sky dipped into a faint amber, it washed the metal walls in a tired hush. Rune-lamps along the walkways clicked low, casting long, thin shadows across the central chamber's polished floor. This was the space they used for strategy and speech, not rest. Just a hollow circle wide enough to echo truth.
Arthur stood where the floor's spiral inlay met its center.
To his left, Beli remained unmoving, helmet off, skull exposed and silent beneath the flickering lights. His ribs clicked now and then against his armor, faint sounds like creaking wood. His armor buzzed softly with passive spells. Aleks sat on a stone ledge across the chamber, elbows on knees, skin pallid but eyes alert. One of his sleeves hung loose where Seisyll had removed his brace.
