The war chamber breathed with old magic.
Aria felt it in her bones—the pulse of history in every stone, in every rune carved along the obsidian walls. The air was thick with incense and tension. Maps layered the table in front of them—regions outlined in blood-red ink, battalions marked with moving glyphs.
Selene stood at the head of the table, robes flowing like moonlight over midnight waters. Her eyes shimmered silver, untouched by fatigue despite the days of restless preparation.
Dorian leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Tobias paced, unable to stay still. Marcus stood silent and grounded beside Aria, always the anchor.
Rowan kept to the side, part shadow, part sentinel.
Selene broke the silence first.
"Voryn's retreat was no surrender."
Tobias scoffed. "We noticed."
"He is not regrouping for a counterstrike," she continued. "He is preparing for something else."
Aria's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
