The Great Council Chamber of Mount Sorrow was bathed in the pale, cold dawn filtering through the high clerestory windows. Chancellor Vane sat at the center of the basalt semicircle, his burned, blistered hands wrapped in fresh white bandages, his face twisted in silent, seething fury. Surrounding the council table were the nine remaining Conclave lords, whispering in agitated tones as rumors of the subterranean battle circulated through the citadel.…
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