And yet, beneath the careful plotting, something fragile had taken root. Doubt. In the stillness after the meeting, more than one of them had hesitated at the threshold, hand resting briefly on cold iron or worn wood. For an instant, they had imagined turning back—confessing, warning, choosing the harder path. The moment passed, as such moments always do, but it left a mark.
By the time the sun rose, the hall would be just another forgotten place, its secrets sealed behind stone and dust. But the choices made there would travel far, carried by rumor, by orders, by screams. Kingdoms would fracture. Loyalists would become traitors in turn, forced by survival to repeat the cycle. In the end, no song would capture the truth of that night. There would be no clear villains, no pure heroes.
