The Council chamber burned with light.
Cold, sterile, blinding.
Every lantern along the high walls flared white as the alarms began to shriek, echoing up the marbled dome. Glyphs carved into obsidian glowed sickly red — containment breach warnings pulsing like a heartbeat.
Councilor Soreth rose from his seat before the sound finished its first cycle. His dark cloak unfurled like wings.
“Report,” she snapped.
No one moved at first. The circle of elder reapers — thirteen shadows bound by ancient oaths — sat frozen in their thrones, staring at the crimson flare on the center dais where containment schematics shimmered.
A younger attendant stumbled forward, pale and shaking. “The ward surrounding Cell 9 collapsed, High Councilor. Defensive measures have failed. The signatures inside—” He
