The private meeting room had been hastily converted from a classroom in one of the few intact buildings.
Stone walls still showed scorch marks from essence techniques gone wild during the attack. The windows were covered with temporary barriers of crystallized essence.
A long table dominated the center. Around it sat figures of considerable power and influence, their expressions ranging from exhausted to furious.
CRACK!
A hand slammed onto the table's surface with enough force to splinter the wood.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
The voice belonged to a man who stood at the head of the table, his posture rigid with barely contained fury.
Archbishop Valen Solarius.
He seemed to be in his late fifties, with black hair silvering dramatically at the temples.
His face was all sharp angles and severe lines, handsome, cold, perfect, utterly without warmth.
