The council chamber smelled faintly of incense and old parchment. Dim lanterns burned along the walls, their flames bending shadows across the floor, making the air feel thick and heavy. Dozens of foxkin nobles sat in silence around a crescent table carved from dark, polished wood. Their many tails twitched lazily, a hypnotic sway of white, red, and silver fur, but their eyes stayed sharp, glinting like scattered jewels in the low light.
At the head of the table sat Lady Velara, the overseer of the Pentademonica cult. Her authority in the shadowy organization was undeniable, but even she lowered her head slightly when the elder lords and ladies spoke. Their power was centuries-deep, their influence stretching far beyond this hall and into the very roots of the continent.
Finally, one of the oldest elders, a male with a mane of coarse grey fur, tapped a long, curved claw against the table, the sound a sharp rap that cut through the silence.
