I stand in my office, bathed in the pale glow of the moonlight streaming through the tall windows. Its cold, silver light paints everything in shades of quiet resolve, but inside me, the storm is far from calm. My gaze lingers on the moon for a moment longer, its stillness a stark contrast to the chaos simmering beneath my skin.
I turn slowly, finding the sentinels kneeling before me, their heads bowed low, the weight of my fury pressing down on them like an iron shroud. They can feel it too—the tension, the unspoken threat of what comes next.
"You see," I begin, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade, sharp and cold, "by the first morning light, I want the Robbens ruined."
*
