The sound of the chamber doors slamming open echoed like a gunshot.
Robes rustled. Elders straightened. Gasps rippled through the room like wind before a storm.
Camille Blake stood in the threshold, her eyes wild, her braid half-loosened, strands of her raven hair spilling down her face like spilled ink. Moonlight shimmered across her skin, casting shadows that didn't quite follow the laws of light.
She walked like fire, uninvited, unannounced, unafraid.
"I wasn't summoned," she said, voice too calm for the chaos she brought, "but I speak all the same."
"Camille," Celeste whispered, half-rising from her seat. "Don't."
But Camille was already halfway down the aisle, robes flowing behind her like the wings of a fallen seraph. The elder guards stepped forward, hands reaching for blades, but Beckett moved fast, blocking them with a raised palm.
"Don't be foolish," he muttered. "She's not a threat."
"She's a Blake," Sterling said, his voice cold. "Which is the same thing."
