ONE DAY LATER
The marble veins of the Fae Council Court glimmered beneath morning light, their soft pulses of magic reflecting the shifting moods within. I sat beneath the high dome beside Lady Saelira Duskthorne and Warden Myrrien Voss, the two sharpest blades in this council's sheath. Saelira wore the iron-grey gown of her station, silver branches woven into her black braid like symbols of ancestral truth. Myrrien, always quiet, stood with arms behind her back, every movement deliberate, her eyes ever scanning for dissonance.
Our council was routine today, border disputes with the Thornwood Clans, realignments of moonstone taxation, the usual fragile balance of politics and power. And yet, the air felt off. The birds that used to trill above the garden canopy were hushed. Even the council mages who stood to offer notes and projections spoke a touch too softly, as if their voices feared the truth already coiling in the wind.
