The war chamber wasn't quiet. It was suspended.
Like a held breath before the next scream.
The table hadn't moved. Neither had the chairs. The runes etched into the walls still glowed with their muted authority—steady, ceremonial, unimpressed by panic.
But the room's pulse had changed.
Nyx stood at the head of the table. Arms folded. Shoulders squared. Not stiff. Not relaxed.
Poised.
Strategic stillness in human form.
Three generals sat before her.
Thorne—old, brash, his voice too loud for the space even when he wasn't speaking.
Malik—lean, analytical, gaze like a ledger that judged you in columns.
And Elizia—quiet. Always quiet. Until she wasn't.
None of them said a word at first.
That was respect.
Or fear.
Nyx broke the silence with a single motion—her hand flicked, and a blue-glassed projection sphere hovered over the table. The image above it spun once. Paused. Then sharpened into view.
A map.
The Academy grounds.
The courtyard.
