The room was old stone and older silence. Candles flickered in iron sconces along the walls, their light catching the edges of faces that had seen centuries pass like seasons. A long oak table dominated the center, scarred by decades of use and the occasional argument that had turned physical. Around it sat figures that would have made mortal men weep with terror.
Cain sat at the head. His eyes were closed. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with existence itself. The crimson in his gaze was dimmed, banked like coals that had burned too long and too hot.
The others watched him. They had been watching him for an hour now, waiting for him to speak. But he didn't. He just sat there, breathing slow and even, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Alaric broke first. He always did.
"We need to talk about the werewolves."
Cain's eyes didn't open. "What about them?"
