The night after the battle burned itself into Evelyn's memory. She could still smell the smoke in her hair, still hear the echo of the warriors' chants, still feel the weight of the children's hands gripping her cloak. But when she returned to Ravenclaw manor, she found no rest. The council chamber waited, heavy with tension, and the elders were already assembled like vultures circling a wounded beast.
Damien sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his face pale. The effort of holding himself steady was visible in every line of his body. His cough lingered in the silence, muffled behind a hand, but Evelyn noticed the crimson stain on his sleeve when he lowered it. He thought he had hidden it. He had not.
George stood behind Evelyn, his presence solid, but his eyes warned her that this meeting would be a battlefield of its own.
