In the eastern wing of Manor van der Pijl, a different kind of silence commanded the air. If the library was defined by the sharp scratch of fountain pens and the urgent, intellectual whispers of strategic maneuvers between Mayangkara and Carmelia, then Nala’s private meditation sanctuary—a chamber of damp natural stone walls and perpetually warm ulin floors—was defined by the slow, hypnotic burn of incense and the rhythmic, heavy pulse of the earth itself.
Nala sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his figure appearing like an ancient bronze statue beneath the flickering torchlight. He was the gravitational center of the entire circuit of power in this land, yet the weight of the Black Ledger and the restless, dark energy unearthed from the Vault earlier that day had created an imm
