I crossed the threshold.
Immediately, the temperature dropped. Not a simple coolness — a dry, deep cold, almost symbolic. The air bit into my skin, not harshly, but with that dull insistence that said: you are no longer outside.
As if, here, even the flames had gone silent.
As if warmth had been banished, expelled by the mere presence of those who sat there.
At the center of the tent, a table. Immense. Carved from black wood, almost charred, but streaked with veins of gold. Liquid gold, ancient, that pulsed faintly under the light like sleeping blood. It was beautiful. And a little disturbing. As if the furniture itself was breathing, slowly, in its own way.
Around it, nine chairs arranged in a semicircle. Eight were occupied. And not by just anyone.
No. It was them. The Lords.
I didn't need to know their names.
Their mere presence was enough.
