Thirteen stone chairs, thrones, really, were positioned in a perfect circle around a raised central dais. Each throne was unique, carved with symbols and patterns representing its clan, and sized appropriately for its occupant. Some were massive, built for nine-foot warriors. Others were smaller and more delicate, suggesting different physiques.

As Jorghan entered with Sigora, Kal'tun, and Korreth, he saw that most of the thrones were already occupied.

His observing gaze swept across them, cataloging details with the careful attention of someone who understood that knowledge was survival.

To his left sat an elf whose skin had a faint grey tint, suggesting mountain clan heritage, probably adapted for underground living, with eyes that could see in darkness and physiology designed for thin air and enclosed spaces. The throne's carvings showed mining tools and geometric patterns.

Beyond them, a forest clan representative, impossibly tall and slender, with bark-like patterns visible on their exposed skin, suggesting a connection to nature that went beyond metaphor into actual biological adaptation. Their throne was carved to resemble a living tree.

Others filled the circle, each one distinct, each one representing a different answer to the question of what elven evolution could produce when isolated populations adapted to extreme environments over countless generations.

But three thrones drew his attention most strongly.

One remained empty, positioned directly across from where an Arumak was guiding him. That would be his seat, the Sol'vur throne. Even from this distance, he could see fresh carving work, the stone still showing signs of recent craftsmanship. They'd prepared a place for him, but the newness of it made his status clear: he was the newest addition, the unproven element in an ancient system.

Another throne held the serpent-man, Tadrukein, Sigora had whispered as they entered. He reclined in his seat with the fluid grace of a predator at rest, his scaled skin catching the light, his vertical-pupil eyes tracking every movement in the chamber with unsettling precision. His throne was carved with intertwining serpent forms, the Sarpetaretsu clan symbol.

Second strongest clan, Sigora had said.

Which meant only one clan exceeded its power.

The third throne that commanded attention held the fur-covered woman, Citrangada of the Rudanavas clan.

Up close, the details of her unique physiology were more apparent. Her entire body was covered in that soft, milk-white fur, visible on her arms, her neck, disappearing under clothing that suggested it continued across her entire form. Her face maintained that slight simian protrusion, but her features were arranged in a way that created its own kind of beauty—alien but not unattractive. Her fur-skinned ears, too, were pointed and twitched occasionally, showing her keen sense of hearing.

What truly caught Jorghan's attention was her figure. Despite the fur, despite the alien facial structure, her body had curves that would have made women envious, a full bust, wide hips, and a rear that her seated position couldn't hide that was notably plump.

The combination of animal characteristics and distinctly feminine proportions created a visual that Jorghan's brain struggled to categorize.

She noticed him staring and smiled, a surprisingly womanly expression despite her inhuman mouth, with eyes that carried both intelligence and amusement at his obvious fascination.

Jorghan looked away quickly, focusing on his own designated throne as the Arumak guided him to it.

The stone was cool under his hands as he gripped the armrests, lowering himself into a seat that had been sized for someone of his height rather than the typical eight-foot elf. Someone had done their research and ensured he'd be comfortable rather than dwarfed by oversized furniture.

He looked skeptical about the meeting already.

Sigora took a seat behind the circle, a secondary ring where clan companions and advisors sat, close enough to be consulted but far enough to make clear this was the leaders' space.

Kal'tun and Korreth settled into their own thrones, their earlier friendliness shifting to formal dignity befitting the occasion.

Jorghan's gaze swept the circle again, and his mind went to the history that had brought him here.

His father's wish.

That's what this was, fundamentally.

Jorghan's hands tightened on the armrests as old anger stirred.

The Council had betrayed his father. A few of these clans had colluded with humans to destroy the Sol'vur, slaughtered his family, and tried to eliminate the bloodline entirely.

And Ser'gu, in his grief and rage and terrible power, had responded by wiping out those three clans almost to the last member. Had killed the humans responsible. Had drenched the realm in blood and proven exactly why the Berserk Lords had been feared.

But then—gods, even remembering it made Jorghan's chest tight with conflicting emotions—his father had tried to come back. Had missed his friends among the clans, the ones who hadn't been part of the betrayal. Had been naive enough, foolish enough, to think they'd welcome him despite what he'd done in his justified rage.

They hadn't.

They'd been terrified of him, of what he represented, and of the power he'd demonstrated. So they'd stripped the Sol'vur name from the official clan records, pretended the thirteenth clan had never existed, buried the history, and hoped it would stay buried.

Now, years later, with Ser'gu dead and his son demonstrating similar power against Imperial forces, they were extending an invitation.

Now they wanted the Sol'vur to rejoin the Council.

Not out of friendship.

Out of fear.

They were afraid of what Jorghan might do if he remained outside their political structure, unbound by Council law, and free to act as his father had acted.

Better to bring him inside, make him subject to Council authority, and bind him with tradition and expectation.

Jorghan understood the calculation.

He didn't like it, but he understood it.

He'd come anyway.

Not for them, not because he'd forgiven what they'd done to his father. But because of Sigora—his aunt by blood, his mother by choice, the woman who'd found him at ten years old after Ser'gu's death and raised him as her own. Ser'gu's sister, carrying her own grief and anger, but choosing love over vengeance.

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