The hastily built chamber in Hearthglen smelled of raw timber and smoke. The walls were too thin for dignity, and the benches still creaked with unfinished polish. But here they were—what was left of the beastkin alliance. Empty seats gaped like wounds around the crescent table. The banners of fallen clans and slain representatives hung limp from the rafters, reminders of how badly the Pentademonica cult's fire had gutted them.
Dozens of beastkin nobles and officials argued beneath the dim glow of crystal lamps. Their voices clashed, a discordant symphony of fear and mutual blame. There was no rhythm, no order, only venom and suspicion.
A ramari elder with curved horns tipped with silver rings rose to his feet. He raised his hands in a calming gesture, his voice a weary bleat. "Esteemed delegates, I beg you, restraint. This is not the hour to splinter. The Pentademonica has already succeeded in tearing our bonds. Shall we finish the job for them?"
