(Damien POV)
The war room smelled of old parchment and cooling iron. Maps lay scattered across the long table like flayed skins; markers of black wax showed villages fallen, clans bent, armies swelling. My lieutenants had left an hour ago—faces carefully blank, voices clipped. They no longer met my eyes for longer than necessary. The silence they left behind was louder than any accusation.
I stood alone now, palms flat on the table, staring at the jagged outline of Blackspire itself. My own fortress. My prison.
The demon's voice slithered up from the place I kept it chained—warm, patient, reasonable.
Finish the ritual tonight.
I closed my eyes.
