The scouts were gone. Zephyr had tracked their retreat through the grasslands — three signatures moving south in loose formation, the Frogman surface-runner leading, the other two underground. They'd crossed out of his sensory range by midday. By evening, they were someone else's problem.
Now began the window.
He convened the inner council in the Chapel's war room — the back chamber behind the altar where maps were pinned to the walls and a wooden table held carved territorial markers. It was not an impressive room. No banners, no ceremony. Just stone walls, firelight, and the people who made decisions.
