Back in the small chamber, the air carried that steady mix of warm wax, dust, and the clean bite of ink. Satchels came and went like tides. Leather straps clicked. Seals cracked with small dry sounds. Aelthrin stood where he always stood to read ugly news—half-turned to the window for light, feet set as if he might have to hold the room up by himself.
He had a red-ribbon packet balanced in one palm. His thumb slid under the bottom seal, neat and sure. He read without moving his lips. When he spoke, he kept his voice level, the way you tell a fever the number on the cup.
"Technomancer League has declared war on an Arcane Order faction," he said. The words dropped one by one, no decoration. "By pact, we are entangled. Serewyn requests joint command intelligence—necrotech incidents rising—but asks for our methodology, not troops. Three other Order polities request arbiters or supply corridors." His eyes lifted to Elowen's. "This demands our full attention."
