The council chamber hadn't changed.
Same stone walls polished by decades of quiet arguments. Same high windows filtering in thin, filtered light. Same long table carved from blackwood, its surface engraved with the sigils of the Ten Seats.
But the people around it had changed.
Myriel von Astralis sat at the head, sharp-eyed and silent, her presence more ceremonial than functional now. She had spoken once at the start of the meeting—"Keep it civil"—and hadn't said another word since.
Nine other members sat spaced around the table.
And the air between them was thin.
One noble spoke first.
"Dior represents continuity. He understands how things work—how they've always worked."
Another, noble, nodded in agreement.
"He has the backing of tradition. That should mean something in this room."
Across the table, a young mage from the outer provinces frowned.
"And Seraphina represents everyone else."
"This academy isn't a royal court," someone muttered.
