The great hall of the Walker clan was heavy with incense smoke and suppressed anger. Torches flared unevenly, their flames bending in the draft that slipped through the carved stone pillars. The long table at the center was lined with elders, each in their dark robes, each with a face carved with pride, suspicion, or rage. The air itself seemed to hum with unspoken violence.
Zilton Walker, clan head, sat at the far end. His broad frame leaned forward on the armrests of his chair, his eyes glinting like the edge of a blade barely sheathed. He had listened as Tom and Rain relayed the report: another Walker spy erased without a trace near the Magical City. A Spirit Root level nine, gone as if plucked from the world.
When they finished, the hall erupted.
"It is arrogance beyond bearing!" The teacups rattled as Elder Garan slammed his palm down on the table. "The Osborns hide like rats beneath the city's walls, yet their claws reach out to wound us. We should march—"
