The council chamber had not changed in centuries.
Stone walls curved upward into a domed ceiling etched with ancient runes, symbols of conquest, treaties written in blood and ink, and the old magic that once ruled the continent before kingdoms learned to call it law instead. Tall windows allowed cold daylight to spill across the obsidian table at the chamber's center, where the fate of Nacrifa was decided again and again.
Sebastian arrived without announcement.
He did not need one.
Conversation died the moment the doors closed behind him.
The Crown Prince took his seat with measured calm, dark attire immaculate, expression unreadable. Yet beneath the stillness, his mind churned. Training. Miquel. Aliena. The forest. The war.
He forced the last thought down.
This meeting required sharpness, not distraction.
