The chamber swallowed sound and light alike.
A dome of black stone arched high above the Council's hall, its surface painted with constellations that no longer wandered the night. Lanterns of pale, cold flame lined the circular walls, their glow revealing more shadow than clarity, faces etched in the obsidian surface of the long table, rings flickering as hands flexed in silence. Twelve thrones sat like teeth around that dark mirror; one seat remained empty, a permanent absence that tasted of old fears and fresher blood.
When the doors groaned open the hush did not break so much as bend toward the new sound. The captain entered with the slow, sure step of someone who had learned to move even when every limb protested. Her armor bore the map of the night: scorched edges, splintered pauldrons, streaks of dried red that no longer shone. She did not bother with obeisance; none of them were worth the breath.
