The room had mostly cleared, but the echoes of the discussion lingered. Maps lay unfurled across the long table, illuminated by the dim, flickering glow of the lanterns. The scent of aged parchment and burning wick filled the space, mixing with the ever-present cool draft that seeped through the stone walls of the Sanctum.
Captain Arcon remained at her desk, her sharp gaze scanning reports, but Solin could tell she was only half-reading. He knew the look—mind elsewhere, thoughts tangled in something beyond the ink on those pages. The weight of leadership sat on her shoulders in ways most people wouldn't recognize. But Solin had seen it before.
Which is why he didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"I saw Drevin."
Arcon's quill stilled. Ink bled into the paper as the silence stretched between them. Slowly, she looked up, and for the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered across her face.
Then she was composed again, her tone as steady as ever. "Where?"
"Lower districts," Solin said, crossing his arms. "Didn't bother hiding. He wanted to be seen."
That meant something. Drevin was many things—a monster, a ghost, a remnant of something that should have been erased—but he was never careless. If he was walking the streets of Althmire, it wasn't a coincidence. It was a message.
Arcon exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair. "Did you tell Benedict?"
Solin let out a quiet scoff. "No. Didn't feel like watching him throw himself into an early grave tonight."
Her fingers tapped against the desk, expression unreadable. "You think he'd be that reckless?"
Solin tilted his head, giving her a look that said she already knew the answer.
"We both know Benedict is a hothead. He's not stupid, but he takes things too personally. And Drevin would love nothing more than to cut him down just to prove a point."
Arcon clenched her jaw. She didn't argue because there was nothing to argue against. Benedict was skilled, but Drevin was something else entirely. A force that didn't abide by the same rules.
And then, as if the weight of the thought settled over them both, Arcon muttered, "Dorian will want to know."
Solin's smirk faded. "Dorian isn't here."
She tensed slightly, and for the first time that night, Solin saw hesitation in her. Because Dorian wasn't just away—he was isolating himself.
The last time Dorian faced Drevin, it had ended in blood. His brother's blood.
It was the kind of loss that didn't heal. The kind that festered.
And now, Dorian was pushing himself to limits that others feared to touch. Training in the far reaches of the Sanctum, cutting himself off from the world, from the distractions of people who might try to stop him from what came next.
Arcon looked away for a moment, her fingers tightening into a fist. "Do you think he's ready for this?"
Solin exhaled slowly. "I think he's been waiting for it."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Dorian was many things—calculating, relentless, a man who lived and breathed precision. But when it came to Drevin, there was something raw beneath the surface. An old wound, carved into him by the loss of his brother. A wound that hadn't closed.
Solin had seen the look in Dorian's eyes the last time Drevin's name was spoken. It wasn't anger. Not exactly. It was something worse.
Purpose.
"I'll alert a few trusted names," Arcon said finally, rubbing her temples. "But we keep this quiet for now. If Benedict finds out—"
"I know," Solin cut in. "I'll keep an eye on things."
He turned toward the door, but Arcon's voice stopped him.
"Solin."
He glanced back.
She held his gaze, something almost unreadable in her expression. "Be careful."
Solin didn't answer. He just nodded once before disappearing into the corridor, the shadows swallowing him whole.