The council cavern felt heavier than usual.
The faint glow of crystals along the walls cast long shadows across the gathered Dark Elves, their ashen skin and silver eyes catching the dim light in sharp contrasts. The air carried the familiar scent of damp earth and resin, but beneath it lingered something else tonight—tension, thick and unyielding.
Fior stood at the center.
The signs of the assault had not faded. A bruise darkened the side of his jaw, a shallow cut ran across his cheek, and his shoulder was still bound beneath dark cloth. He did not bother hiding any of it.
If anything, he wore it like proof.
Xeveris sat at the head of the table, his posture composed, though his gaze lingered on Fior with a weight that spoke of concern rather than authority. Around him, the elders had gathered, Yttriva leaning as usual against a stone pillar, Ermid standing with his arms folded, and a handful of others watching in silence.
