Beneath the towering foundations of the Silvercrest stronghold existed a place forgotten by time and deliberately erased from memory. It was not marked on any map, nor spoken of in council meetings. Those who knew of it referred to it only in hushed tones, as though the stones themselves might listen.
The Chamber of Whispers.
Its arched ceiling curved low, carved from ancient rock, bearing the scars of centuries past. Faded sigils lined the walls—symbols of unity, of judgment, of oaths once sworn and long broken. The air was cool and still, heavy with the weight of secrets buried deep within its stone veins.
Marcus Lyric stood alone at the far end of the chamber.
He leaned casually against the wall, posture relaxed, as though this were merely another waiting room rather than the birthp
