The Guild Council convened in a place that made Michael's teeth ache.
It wasn't a room.
It was a statement of power, carved from polished obsidian and shimmering chrome, a hundred stories above the wounded city.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic, god's-eye view of a Manhattan that was still smoldering from their victory.
A massive, circular table, so black it seemed to drink the light, dominated the center of the room.
Around it sat the lions of the city.
The Guild Masters.
Okay, so this is the final boss's throne room, Michael's inner monologue drawled, his sarcasm a flimsy shield against the crushing weight of the room's importance.
But with more old guys in expensive suits.
And significantly fewer health bars.
Forge, their grizzled, reluctant sponsor, sat at the head of the table, his massive warhammer leaning against his chair like a sleeping, two-hundred-pound dog.
He looked as comfortable as a bear in a tuxedo.
