The scent of blood still lingered in the air as Draven, Vyrell, and Soren sat in the dimly lit meeting hall.
Their victory had been swift and brutal.
Now came the part that really mattered.
Lucavion entered the room last, his steps slow and unhurried.
He looked like a man who had already moved past the battle—as if the blood soaking his coat and the wounds still healing across his skin were minor inconveniences, nothing more.
He dropped himself into the nearest chair, exhaling lightly.
Draven leaned forward, his gray eyes sharp. "So."
Lucavion tilted his head slightly. "So?"
Soren let out a short laugh. "You really fucking did it, huh?"
Vyrell remained silent, studying Lucavion carefully.
Draven sighed, rubbing his temple. "Aldric's gone. The Black Veil's crushed. Varenthia's ours."
