The council room felt like an engine at idle—quiet, steady, ready to work. No banners. No drama. Just a long oval table of crystal and stone, sunlight falling in clean lines, and chairs filled by people who actually do things. Tiamat sat at the head, not as a queen on a throne, but like a mountain over a valley—present and impossible to ignore.
Marcus and Lyralei took the seats to her left and right. Ian sat two chairs down from his father, eyes sharp despite little sleep. Ministers, generals, ward engineers, and elders filled the rest. Seraphina chose a place by the technical slate. Rose sat where drafts would land. Rachel picked a seat with a clear view of faces. Reika walked the perimeter, noted exits, then sat beside me.
Lyra Vionn entered alone. No guards. No display. She bowed to Tiamat, set a small tri-ring pin on the table, and waited.
"Envoy Lyra," Tiamat said. "You have the floor."
