The chamber smelled faintly of salt and ash.
It wasn't supposed to.
The Hall of Dominion was a fortress of marble and brass, a monument to the Council's wealth and control. The air here was always cool, scented faintly of imported spices, its windows angled to catch the morning light in gold. But today, as the delegates gathered, there was a heaviness — a dampness clinging to the walls like the aftertaste of a storm.
At the head of the crescent table, Archon Veyrus slammed a report onto the polished wood. The scroll unrolled across half the table's length, splattering droplets of seawater across the grain.
"Explain this." His voice was measured, but each word had the weight of an anchor.
The man kneeling before him did not look up. His uniform, once pristine in Council blue, was shredded and blackened, the gold thread scorched. One arm was bound in a hastily knotted sling.
