The tent stood like a cathedral reborn from ash, its walls thrumming with quiet energy, its seams catching the light like veins full of gold. Rain had started to fall, not gently but in staccato strikes that echoed off the tent's roof like war drums played too late.
Inside, silence reigned.
Then, one by one, the kings and queens entered.
They left behind their banners, their retainers, their few knights, their fears. Inside this sacred war-chamber, only sovereigns could speak. And only truth could live—however brutal, however inconvenient.
Eli stood just outside, the last to enter, the edge of her coat damp with rain. Her eyes—normally sharp with regal calculation—were dim, frayed around the edges.
She looked at Merlin beside her.
He was a shadow of what he once was. Gone was the man who'd barked orders and summoned lightning. Now he stood hunched, silent, eyes fixed on the ground like something had cracked in his soul.
