The council chamber had barely emptied when Elder Morien swept down the corridor. Rathor followed close behind, his silence tight. The faint murmur of voices still echoed in the distance...guards, attendants.
They didn’t speak until the door to Morien’s private office shut behind them.
The quiet that followed was not peace. It was restraint.
Across from him, Rathor folded his hands, keeping his face carved into a mask, though the tapping of his fingers against the armrest betrayed the impatience that no elder ever liked to show.
The council prided itself on patience, subtlety, and the long game. That was how power survived—through careful cuts and invisible hands, so no one could ever trace the pattern back to the blade.
But this morning, something had slipped their grasp.
Or rather—
