The chamber was dim, lit only by a handful of floating torches suspended from the arched ceiling like trapped stars.
Thick red curtains muted the wind from outside, and the air smelled of scented oils and quiet ambition. A long dark table stretched through the center of the room, polished to a perfect mirror, so each face reflected their own mask clearly.
Twelve nobles sat around it.
Most wore veils or half-masks, subtle signals that this meeting was not official, not binding. And yet, they were all aware that tonight's whispers would dictate tomorrow's legacy.
The vote for the new Council seat would be cast at dawn.
The fourth Chair—temporarily occupied since the "disappearance" of Lord Lugard—was a prize not offered lightly. Its power encompassed the city's hidden arteries: Arena, power, blood. Whoever took that throne would be feared as much as they were respected.
Lord Anderson sat at the head of the table, fingers laced beneath his chin.
