The pile of white salt on the floor of the High Council chamber was the only evidence that a man had ever stood there. It sat in a neat, mocking mound, glittering under the morning sun that streamed through the high windows of the Obsidian Fortress. In the center of the pile lay the black wax seal—the serpent devouring its own tail—untouched and cold.
I stood over it, my hand still clutching the ash of the message. The amber mark on my palm was no longer humming; it was burning, a sharp, localized heat that signaled a defensive shift in my blood.
"The wind didn't even take it," Leo whispered, standing a respectful distance away. He poked at the edge of the salt with the tip of his boot. It didn't scatter. It was heavy, crystalline, and smelled faintly of ancient, stagnant seawater. "He turned to stone, then to salt, in three seconds. He didn't even scream."
