The halls of Dominion High were carved from obsidian and steel, lit by pale blue flames that cast long shadows along the walls. It was a place built not for beauty but for power—a fortress where whispers of conquest were spoken like prayers.
Solas strode through the grand chamber, his cloak newly woven, his presence sharp as the frost that followed his steps. Though his armor bore faint cracks from the gorge, he carried himself with the calm precision of a predator that had tasted blood and survived.
The council was already gathered. Around the long crescent table sat Dominion’s architects: High Magisters, military commanders, and the hooded figure who rarely spoke but always decided—the Overseer.
The chamber quieted as Solas approached, the echo of his boots the only sound. He bowed hi
