The air in the great chamber trembled with the soft hum of candlelight. Wax dripped in slow amber rivers down tall holders, pooling like molten suns upon the oak table that stood at the center of the room.
Arina sat at one end, arms folded across her chest, her slayer's cloak still muddy from the mission. Drops fell from the edge of it, marking the floor with the rhythm of time itself. Her blade rested beside her, silent but restless, gleaming faintly in the flickering light.
Aiden stood at the head of the table. The others—the Countess with her green hair gleaming like an emerald serpent in the light, the elven mother, the quiet child, and Amber—watched him as though awaiting the first move of a god.
"So," Arina said at last, her voice a tempered steel. "You've spoken of vision, of uniting crown, church, and guild. But tell me—how do you intend to forge such a thing? Even the dreams of kings rot when gold runs thin."
