The meeting room smelled faintly of steel and parchment, the residue of countless councils where lives and strategies had been weighed.
General Ivaan sat with arms crossed, listening intently as Captain Apnoch relayed their report in clipped, soldierly detail. He didn't embellish, didn't soften—he spoke as one who knew the truth was heavy enough without polish.
The beasts breaching beneath the walls. The tunnels that had been more than burrows. The masked fighters, their way of fighting, their coordinated retreat, and the collapse of every trace of evidence.
Damien watched Ivaan's face carefully, noting the small flickers of recognition—or perhaps disquiet—that passed behind the old general's eyes. By the time Apnoch finished, the sky beyond the high windows had started to fade into dusk, purple shadows crawling across the city.
