The next morning, spurred by Helga's quiet but firm insistence, Reuben convened his inner council to the stone chamber buried beneath the citadel—a narrow, torch-lit room with no windows and fewer secrets. The air was thick with dampness and old dust, the walls echoing the quiet dread that had begun to settle over Northem.
Duval arrived first, pale and tight-lipped, shadows beneath his eyes betraying a night of unrest. He clutched his weather-stained coat close to his chest, as though the intelligence he carried was not merely valuable, but volatile. Moments later, Malik came with his son Espiyor, their boots heavy on the stone floor, weariness carved into their features after a sleepless vigil at the eastern front.
Last came Solanio, unhurried and unnervingly at ease, his embroidered cloak swirling behind him like a banner of indifference. He swept into the room with a half-smile, as though the growing storm beyond Northem's walls was little more than a show to him.
