The common room of the Silver Lantern Inn had never seen so many important people.
Archmage Theron Vance sat at the head of the table, his grey robes freshly pressed, his beard trimmed. Beside him, Magister Elara Voss arranged papers she didn't need, her sharp eyes fixed on the stairwell. Two other council members flanked them—a round-faced woman named Magister Holt and a thin man with a nervous twitch called Master Corvin.
They'd been waiting for twenty minutes.
Finn had kept them waiting on purpose. Lucian hadn't told him to. It was instinct. A lesson learned from years of surviving on the streets: people who waited were people who wanted something. People who wanted something could be negotiated with.
He descended the stairs slowly, one step at a time, his dark blue tunic pressed, his silver clasp straight, his boots polished. Lucian followed a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, expression blank.
