A meeting was underway.
On the marble heights of Elarith, the Graces sat encircled around a glowing celestial table, radiant threads of magic tying their seats together. All were present—except one.
Velmira.
"Where is that damn woman?" Volaris muttered, arms crossed, the Grace of Life still visibly sour from her last outburst.
Gildar Vane, the Grace of Space, gave a casual shrug, his fingers tapping against the steel plating of the table. "She didn't answer the rift. She's probably... occupied."
Then came the voice that silenced all.
"She is," said Invidia, the Grace of Minds. Her tone was soft, but it gripped the room with invisible claws.
Everyone stiffened. Invidia rarely spoke unless she wanted to make people uncomfortable. And when she smiled—like she did now—it was never good.
"I heard," she continued, tilting her head toward Chroneth, "that she's dealing with a little pest. Didn't it get in your continent, Chronisca?"
