The raven had been there then too. Perched unnoticed upon the carved arch above the council hall, wings folded, breath steady, listening.
King Maden stood at the center of the long obsidian table, palms pressed against its surface as flickering lanternlight illuminated the tension carved into every face gathered around him. His councilors—lords of land, commanders of armies, scholars of arcane law—sat rigid, exhausted, their voices hoarse from arguments that had lasted far too long.
"The southern villages are dying," one councilman had said, voice trembling. "The crops are rotting before harvest. Livestock collapse overnight. Healers cannot identify the sickness—no curse, no poison, no plague they recognize."
Another had slammed his fist onto the table. "Famine follows sickness. Refugees flood the capital gates every dawn. If this continues, unrest will rise. Riots will follow."
