The Walker Clan Hall had never felt small before. Its ceiling arched high above rows of stone pillars, each carved with the marks of past victories, each meant to remind anyone who entered that the Walkers had ruled Celestial Brook City for generations. That night, however, the space felt compressed, as if the walls themselves were inching closer.
Zilton Walker sat at the head of the hall. He had not moved since returning. His hands rested flat on the armrests of his chair. His back was straight. His breathing is slow.
The elders stood in a loose semicircle below him. No one had taken a seat. No one dared.
A faint smell of medicinal herbs still clung to the air—evidence of Harvey's recent treatment—but it did nothing to soften the mood. Harvey stood off to one side, half-shadowed by a pillar, arms crossed, eyes lowered. His face was controlled, but the tension in his jaw never eased.
Minutes passed before anyone spoke.
