The ten Elders took their places without haste, fanning out behind the obsidian table like an array of silent judges. Their robes—black trimmed with faint silver runes—barely rustled as they moved, yet their arrival shifted the atmosphere entirely.
Authority settled over the chamber.
Valttair observed them with a measured gaze. He knew each face, each reputation, each political inclination. Ten instruments of tradition and balance—yet powerless compared to the eight seated here, and certainly powerless compared to the silent figure behind Kaedor.
Icarus di Valtaron didn't move. Didn't blink or didn't acknowledge the outburst Grumhald had thrown at him.
As if such things were beneath him.
'A decade gone, then he walks into the Council Chamber as though it's his birthright,' Valttair thought coldly.
The Elder Leader stepped forward, hands clasped lightly.
