The heavy council doors slammed shut behind Ryon, their echo rolling down the marble corridor like the final toll of a funeral bell. The air outside the chamber felt colder, sharper, carrying with it the acrid taste of ash drifting through the high windows. His jaw was still tight from the last words he had spoken—words that had split the council in half and set his course in stone. The vow was made. No turning back now.
He descended the stairwell in long strides, his boots striking each step like drumbeats. The council chamber sat high in the central spire, and the winding descent forced him to pass mural after mural depicting the history of the South—great wars, treaties, and moments of unity long past. Tonight, those painted faces felt like they were watching him, judging whether his defiance was wisdom or folly.
