At the center stood a long table, scarred with age and old burn marks. Maps were spread across it, corners curling, ink faded but still legible. Borders had been crossed, erased, redrawn—sometimes with quills, sometimes with blood. A single seal lay broken near the edge, wax cracked cleanly in half, as if the act itself had been deliberate and ceremonial.
When the silence finally broke, it did so unevenly. A low laugh from one end of the table—bitter, humorless. A sharp intake of breath from another. Accusations hovered unspoken, because everyone understood the truth: no one here was innocent enough to cast the first stone. Trust, in this room, was a currency already spent. They debated in fragments. Not ideals, but outcomes. Not loyalty, but leverage.
