The council chamber still smelled of charred parchment and iron-blood tang, a scent that clung to Ryon's lungs like smoke from a fire that refused to die. He had left the chamber hours ago—left behind the prying eyes, the veiled threats, the taste of bitter politics—and yet every step through the moonlit corridors of the Keep felt as though he were still there, still locked in that suffocating circle of authority. The torchlight along the stone walls flickered in restless patterns, as if the flames themselves sensed the unease buried in his chest.
Outside, the wind clawed through the courtyard, scattering ash from the braziers into the night air. He paused by the eastern archway, looking out toward the black stretch of the southern mountains. Somewhere beyond them, the old battlefields still whispered with the ghosts of wars the council swore had been "necessary." He had believed that once. Not anymore.
