Torval Flameheart stared at the ornate table before him, tracing the wood grain with a finger that had once commanded flames but now trembled with age and regret. The chamber's volcanic vents hissed beneath the floor, reminding him of whispers—accusations from ghosts he couldn't silence.
Five years of desperate research. Five years of sleepless nights. Five years of lying to his people while the real Selene tumbled through endless void.
And now, seated across from him were the consequences of his actions. Five young people who wore the faces of children he had displaced.
