Chapter 107 The Shape Of Fire

• Espen stood barefoot in the war room.
• Not the throne room. Not the strategy chambers. The old war room beneath the rebuilt council tower—once gutted by fire, now lined with maps, steel, and promise. The scent of dust and ink clung to the air, and the flicker of torchlight danced off the stained-glass window above, casting red and violet shadows on the table below.
• Her hands were braced on that table, fingertips ink-stained from writing scrolls herself—no scribes, no messengers. Just her.