The summons of the Council did not surprise Karahad. Nothing did anymore.
He stood at the edge of the Anchor's balcony, a slab of pale stone overlooking the infinite shimmer of the Endless Expanse.
Winds screamed up from the void, carrying scents of ozone and whispers that clawed at the mind. His black cloak did not move — the wards woven into the fabric drank sound, wind, and light alike.
He had been forged for moments like this.
Karahad was not a pillar, nor did he care to be. He lived in the space between the Council's heavy decrees and the world's ignorant chaos.
When the Six needed storms, they summoned Kaelor. When they needed fire, Ishara. When they needed something ended so quietly that not even a death rattle was heard, they summoned him.
He has paid many of the League's debts before, and this time he will pay another.
