The chamber was dim, lit only by the low orange glow of the fireplace.
Aria had gone to rest—reluctantly—leaving the four of them alone. Dorian, Tobias, Marcus, and Rowan.
Silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.
Rowan stood near the hearth, arms crossed behind his back, watching the flames dance. His posture was controlled, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He was a soldier still—trained, sharp, yet strangely adrift.
Tobias leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. His usually light expression was nowhere in sight. His jaw was clenched, eyes unreadable.
Dorian paced slowly, like a wolf deciding if a visitor was friend or prey.
Marcus sat near the center of the room, hands on his knees, silent—but watching. Always watching.
"So," Tobias said first, voice like a whip crack in the quiet. "You just walked into the most secure Flameborn stronghold in the territory?"
Rowan didn't look away from the fire. "Yes."
"No guards stopped you?"
"They didn't see me."
