The silence that followed became heavy and oppressive in the air. It settled over the chamber like smoke after a fire, thick enough to choke thought and sharpen every breath. No one moved at first. Even the torches along the walls seemed to burn lower, their flames bending restlessly in the draft that slipped through the stone seams.
Then Vaeron moved.
Slowly and deliberately, he crossed the room toward the great council table, where the map of the entire continent lay spread out beneath daggers, iron seals, and half-burned candles. The parchment was scarred with fresh markings—black circles, crimson slashes, and notes scribbled in hurried ink.
His eyes fell on Deathhill, the northern district managed by Blackvale's oldest ward-keepers. The place where the werewolf princess was first abducted on their way to Blackvale.
The mark there was new, a dark ring of ink, circled twice in red. Which meant it had also been attacked.
Vaeron's expression hardened.
