At the Flaming Hall
The hall burned with a constant, flickering crimson glow. The flames that danced along the braziers crackled like whispers of the war that had just ended. Every seat was filled—each of the Five Pillars present, their auras heavy, sharp, and lingering with the scent of battle.
Veymar leaned back casually in his chair, a smug smile curling on his lips. "Well, it's nice to see everyone's still alive."
Dragos turned his head slowly, his molten gaze narrowing. "And what exactly do you mean by that? Were you hoping someone wouldn't make it back, Veymar?"
Veymar shrugged, still smiling. "No, no, just making sure none of my dear elders broke a backbone or two."
Dragos' grin turned dangerous. "You really know how to piss me off."
Malphas slammed his staff on the ground, the flames responding with a sharp hiss. "That's enough. We're not here to argue. We'll begin when Lord Azreal arrives."
