The night did not rest. Even as the moon bled pale light across the fractured rooftops of Velthran, the city seemed to hum with an unseen pulse — one that matched the rhythm in Ryon's chest. It was not the steady beat of a heart at peace, but the pounding of something forged in decision, in defiance, in the molten heat of resolve. The Council's faces still haunted him — their eyes, ancient and cold, peering down as though they held dominion over the marrow in his bones. The chamber's air had been thick with incense and lies, the taste of old ash clinging to his tongue long after he had left.
They had tried to dress their verdict in poetry, in the slow, ceremonial cadence of "tradition," but he had heard the truth under the words — they wanted obedience, not justice. They wanted him tamed, leashed, shaped into another silent brick in their crumbling wall of power. And that, Ryon knew, could never be. Not after Blood and Storm. Not after everything.
