The air in the Great Council Chamber was not merely cold; it was predatory. Twelve obsidian chairs were arranged in a perfect circle, a geometry of power that had remained unchanged for centuries. The floor was a dark, polished glass that reflected the bruised, storm-tossed sky of the city through the high lancet windows. There were no lights, only the dim, natural gloom of a morning that refused to fully break.
Kaelen Vane sat at the head of the circle, his silhouette framed by the churning grey clouds behind him. He looked like a king carved from volcanic rock. To any other observer, he was the personification of the Warlord—his black coat buttoned to the chin, his expression a mask of lethal, unapproachable ice. But those with the "Old Blood" could smell the truth.
