The evening air was cool when Azzy returned to his residence. The corridors of the Death Clan's central citadel were calm—too calm, almost deceptive in their stillness. As he crossed through the main hall, a guard hurried to him and knelt.
"Your Majesty, one of the scouts requests an immediate audience. He claims to have urgent information."
Azzy gave a slight nod. "Bring him to my study."
Moments later, the faint crackle of soul lamps lit up the vast study chamber. Scrolls and documents were neatly stacked across the long ebony table—reports on finances, training schedules, and the latest mission evaluations. A faint scent of old parchment and ink lingered in the air.
The door opened. A young scout stepped inside, his dark uniform dusted from travel, boots still damp with dirt. He dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty."
Azzy looked up from a document he was signing. "What is it?" His tone was calm, but the subtle shift in his aura made the room feel colder.
