The other nineteen delegates were no better, scuttling backward across the blood-spotted flagstones like crabs caught in an open tide pool.
The moment they crossed the threshold into the sunlight, they practically tumbled down the stone stairs, frantically rushing toward the outer palisade without looking back once.
As the heavy timber doors groaned shut behind them, cutting off the frantic scramble outside, the Great Lodge fell into dead, ringing silence.
On the lower platform, the Veynar elders stood with their shoulders locked back, their canes planted firmly into the dirt, their expressions completely wiped of any traditionalist defiance.
Elder Bran took a deep, silent breath, feeling the cool air slowly return to his lungs. He cautiously glanced up at the woman on the bone throne, his mind utterly awash with profound, reverent relief.
