"They fucking killed Faceless!" the first to shout was the shrill voice of the Shrike. Her tone cut the stale air like a knife that had never known a whetstone, all edge and no refinement. "Like how long are we going to just sit and wait, Fangs?"
The rest of the council were all sitting around a table in the depth of only god knows where. The chamber did not belong to any city or temple. It felt carved out of secrecy itself, old stone sweating with a damp chill that never warmed, light drawn from globes that breathed like tired lungs. Holographic visages flickered above the seats that could not be occupied in person, each image wavering at the edges as if reality resented holding their shapes. Not many spoke and they all seemed to be more the thinking type, with the sole exception being the Shrike. She tapped one long nail on the table in a staccato that tried to pass for patience and failed.
