The council chamber's heavy doors closed behind Seraphiel, the angel's golden wings vanishing into the Spire's shadowed corridors. Atherion and Camelia stood alone, the weight of his words settling like a storm cloud.
The trial loomed, its nature unknown, and the presence of a celestial envoy in Obsidian Spire was a spark that could ignite the Demon Realm's fragile unity. The clans, already divided by pride and suspicion, would not take kindly to divine scrutiny, and Atherion knew the balance he'd fought for hung by a thread.
Camelia's light pulsed softly, her hand still in his, grounding him. "We need to move quickly," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her eyes. "The clans will hear of Seraphiel before noon. The Ironfang will bristle, the Bloodthorn will preach doom, and the Emberclaw will fear for their trade. We can't let rumors outpace us."
