The council chamber smelled like old sap and warm parchment. Motes of golden dust drifted down from the canopy dome high above, filtering sunlight through braided root-lattices that lined the ceiling like stained-glass windows carved by nature itself. Thick vines crawled across the living walls, curling around bark-inscribed scrolls that pulsed faintly with mana. Every word spoken here was remembered—etched into the bark in living script, sentence by glowing sentence.
A half-circle of root-woven thrones faced the center dais. Each seat bore the sigil of a Great House: silver river glyphs for Elun'dar, russet ash-leaf for Tormeril, sun-stamped grain for Farcrest, and eight others in a riot of clan colors. Nobles in embroidered cloaks occupied them like rare birds on a branch—bright, watchful, vaguely hostile.
