Valdris settled into the kind of quiet that follows a storm. Crews on the Iron Line sent steady updates. Warders slept in shifts. The Redeemers finished sanctifying the breach and handed the ground back to Southern medics. By late afternoon, the palace switched from crisis to coordination.
I stood with Luna in a high meeting chamber that overlooked the city. A wall of glass showed tiers of stone roofs and slow-moving air traffic. Inside, a long table was already covered in slates, paper briefs, and cups that had been reheated too many times.
Marcus entered first, uniform clean again, posture fixed by habit. Lyralei came with him, every step efficient. Ian followed a beat later, smiling in a way that made the room less tense. Tiamat didn't walk in; she was just suddenly there, near the windows, like the air remembered it owed her a shape.
"We'll need three tracks," Lyralei said without preamble. "Security, relief, and recognition."
