The room was cold.
Not from the weather — wherever this place was, tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden behind layers of dark magic and deliberate isolation, the cold came from something else entirely. It was the kind of cold that settled into your bones when you were surrounded by people who had long since stopped caring about human life.
The chamber was vast but sparse. A long stone table dominated the center of the room, its surface dark and weathered, as though it had witnessed countless conversations that had ended in someone's death. Torches lined the walls, their flames burning a deep, unnatural violet. Five chairs sat around the table — four of them occupied.
The figures seated there were still, patient in the way that only truly dangerous people could be. They didn't fidget. They didn't speak. They simply waited.
At the head of the table sat a figure draped in shadow, their face obscured beneath a hood so deep that even the violet torchlight couldn't reach it. No one looked directly at them. No one dared.
The silence stretched.
Then the door opened.
Veylen stepped inside, his footsteps unhurried, his expression as unreadable as ever. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud that echoed through the chamber. He approached the table without hesitation and stopped, standing at the far end, facing the hooded figure at the head.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then one of the commanders leaned forward, his fingers laced together on the table. "Well?" His voice was smooth, almost bored. "The scroll. Where is it?"
Veylen's eyes moved slowly around the table before settling back at the center. "Velidorn," he said simply. "The Arcane Order's main branch has it now."
The room shifted — not visibly, not dramatically, but something changed in the air. The kind of change you feel before a storm.
Another commander exhaled slowly. "So it made it to the capital."
"Yes," Veylen said.
"Because of three children," another voice said.
The words landed deliberately. Veylen's gaze moved to the source — a commander leaning back in his chair with an expression of open amusement. He was younger-looking than the others, sharp-featured, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"C-Rank Arcanites," the man continued, tilting his head. "Barely promoted, fresh out of some backwater branch." He let out a short laugh, low and mocking. "And you — Veylen the Throat Reaper, the fifth commander of the Shadow Veil — couldn't stop them."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree.
Veylen turned to face him fully, and something flickered behind his eyes — something quiet and cold and very, very dangerous.
"Say that again," Veylen said softly.
The other commander's smile widened. He opened his mouth —
The hooded figure at the head of the table raised one hand.
That was all.
Just one hand, lifted slowly from the armrest, fingers slightly extended.
The smiling commander closed his mouth. Veylen looked away. Neither of them said another word.
The silence that followed was absolute.
After a long moment, the hooded figure lowered their hand. When they spoke, their voice was low — not loud, not commanding in any dramatic way. It didn't need to be. Every person in the room heard it perfectly, as though it had been spoken directly into their ear.
"The scroll is in Velidorn."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a reprimand. It was simply a statement, delivered with the kind of calm that made it far more unsettling than anger would have been.
Another pause.
"Get it back."
The four commanders straightened almost imperceptibly.
"Whatever it takes," the voice continued, quiet as a blade being drawn in the dark. "The scroll does not stay in that city. Is that understood?"
"Yes," the commanders said, nearly in unison.
The hooded figure said nothing more. They leaned back, retreating further into the shadow of their hood, and that was the end of it.
The meeting was over.
As the commanders rose from their chairs, the one who had laughed at Veylen passed close behind him. Neither of them looked at the other. But the air between them was tight as a bowstring.
Veylen was the last to leave. He paused at the door for just a moment, his hand resting on the frame.
Back in Velidorn, three C-Rank Arcanites were sleeping soundly, unaware.
They wouldn't be for long.