The banquet hall of the Silver-Crest was a theater of gilding and pretension, but tonight, it served only as the backdrop to a much darker orchestration. Silas stood at the head of the long, oak table, his hands trembling as he poured wine for the Southern lords. Julian, a shadow of the man he once was, sat to his right, his eyes darting toward every shadow, his skin pallid and drawn.
Miles away, in the deep, silent stone of the Citadel, the atmosphere was far removed from the forced decadence of the gala.
Nyx stood in the center of the chamber, the weight of the Trinity pressing in on her like a physical force. She was no longer just the ghost or the weapon; she was the axis upon which their world turned. The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy, intoxicati
