SKYE'S POV
The Great Hall of Nighthaven had witnessed centuries of bloodshed, brutal edicts, and the crushing weight of the old Conclave’s tyranny. But as the morning sun spilled through the high arched windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air and warming the massive oak table, the room felt entirely entirely reborn. It was no longer a theater of fear. It was a space of shared futures.
Master Vane and his two scribes sat rigidly on the opposite side of the table. Despite the roaring hearth and the cups of steaming spiced tea Marta had personally delivered, the lowland envoy still carried the stiff, defensive posture of a man expecting a trap. His scribes already had their leather-bound ledgers open, quills poised over fresh parchment, ready to document what they undoubtedly as
