The Walker Clan Hall did not feel restless. It felt contained. Light filtered through the high lattice windows in pale strips, catching dust in the air. Incense burned low at the edges of the chamber, its smoke rising in thin, disciplined lines. No one spoke loudly. No one dared.
Zilton Walker sat at the head of the hall, one hand resting on the carved arm of his chair. His posture was relaxed, almost casual. That was what unsettled the elders most. When he raged, there was direction. When he was quiet, calculations were being made.
It had been a full day. Ten cultivators had entered the forbidden forest. Two at Spirit Root Level 7, low stage. Eight at Level 5. Experienced cultivator and disciplined. Used to working without leaving traces.
There had been no signal. No communication. No emergency pulse. Nothing. An elder finally cleared his throat, the sound small in the wide chamber.
