There was a chamber cut from stone deep beneath Valeria, far from prying ears and Imperial lanterns.
Here, torches guttered against damp walls, throwing shadows that clung like drunken friend. It was a place without banners, without heraldry—only silence, and the faces of men and women who had sold their names long ago.
The Shadow League had gathered.
Sylas Valerian sat at the head of the blackened table, the torchlight catching on the silver threads embroidered in his dark doublet.
His eyes, sharp and fever-bright, swept over his companions. Each was masked, some by cloth, some by half-helmets, all by secrecy. Their voices would never be written, their actions never recorded.
Yet tonight the silence was brittle.
"It's been confirmed—It was not Valen," rasped one of the masked voices, a woman with a scar that split her lip. "The Crown Prince was in the north when it happened, attending the Icefort negotiations. His spies move differently, besides—too clean. Too careful."
