The phoenix soul pavilion thrummed with a suffocating tension, thick enough to choke on.
Torches guttered in wall sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that made the stern faces of the assembled elders look even more severe, etched with exhaustion and apprehension.
The air was cold, smelling of old stone and the lingering scent of hastily brewed, bitter tea.
They'd been roused from their beds, Fang Mei still adjusting her hastily pinned hair, Fang Sun stifling a yawn behind a weathered hand, Fang Chen rubbing sleep-grit from his eyes.
Even Fang Yin had been recalled with urgent haste from overseeing Tushar Village.
She stood stiffly by the door, dust still clinging to her boots, her expression grim.
Fang Yuan stood at the head of the heavy obsidian table.
His own weariness was a deep bruise beneath his eyes.
"I am profoundly sorry," he began, his voice rough but carrying clearly in the hushed hall.
