The war room door shut behind Icarus with a muted thud, and the stone corridor ahead stretched long and dim, torches flickering along the walls like the pulse of a dying beast. His steps were silent, almost floating, as he walked past armored guards who stiffened instinctively at his presence. None dared meet his eyes for longer than a heartbeat.
'Good,' he thought. 'It seems that fear makes them loyal to me; better yet, fear is always better than loyalty, especially in important moments.'
He passed two Lycan sentries who bowed as he approached—bowed not out of respect, but out of something closer to primal caution. Icarus didn't blame them. Lycan instincts were sharper than human ones; they sensed danger the way wolves sensed storms. And Icarus was a storm wearing a human shape.
As he walked, snippets of conversation drifted from side rooms:
"Prisoners will handle the Ritefield crowds—"
"Real warriors stay hidden—"
"It was Lord Kaedor's idea, right?"
