The amber gaslight flickered against the tall, arched windows of the ornate marble chamber, casting dancing shadows across the polished mahogany table that dominated the room's center. Outside, the sprawling city of Amnohdet stretched beneath them like a tapestry of stone-floored streets and wrought-iron lampposts, their warm glow creating pools of light in the evening mist. The Witch Spire rose high above the city's concrete splendor, its Gothic architecture a stark reminder of the ancient powers that governed from within its walls.
Right now in this chamber, an uncomfortable tension filled the air like incense grown too thick. The room itself spoke of centuries of tradition—walls lined with leather-bound books, crystal orbs suspended from ornate brass fixtures, and portraits of Reverend Witches.
Spire had a lot of history dating back to the beginning of the empire.
At one side of the room, their postures rigid with formal authority, stood the Ministry's most trusted Arcnytes.
