“They think the city chose itself,” Draven said quietly. “As if choice appears without pressure.”

The room was dim, carved deep beneath the western archive, where stone walls still remembered centuries of obedience. One wall shimmered faintly with inactive glyphs—command wards, dormant but not erased. Draven stood before them, hands clasped behind his back, coat falling straight, posture precise. His calmness unsettled the others far more than anger ever could.

Across the chamber, a ...