The iron scent of formality filled the council chamber — velvet drapes, ancient banners, and gleaming black marble underfoot — yet nothing could mask the stench of blood that clung invisibly to the air.
Lady Morlain stood before the assembled Council and noble houses, her silver hair braided tight against her skull like a warrior preparing for execution.
Her hands were still, perfectly composed.
But her eyes—
Her eyes burned.
"Esteemed Council of Esgard," she began, her voice steady but alive with a dangerous undercurrent. "I come before you not with trivial grievance, but with a grave claim of bloodshed and betrayal."
The council chamber felt smaller with every word she spoke, the air tightening like a garrote.
Ian stood distant, silent, eyes cold and unblinking as a hawk's. He noted the smallest tremors of movement: nobles shifting in their seats, subtle glances passed between the powerful, hidden calculations scratching themselves into the ledger of alliances.
