Thalen awoke with a start. The morning was gray, and dawn's light carried no warmth only the weight of what he'd learned. He pressed a hand to his side, where the Blade That Breaks still lay beneath his cloak. He felt its gentle pulse, as if the weapon itself knew the path he had chosen: not outward war, but inward excavation.
At the summit chamber, the Council gathered again this time in urgency. Renal, Varos, Lady Miraline, Generals Simeon and Terres, Ilara, and the Crown envoys awaited him. The tension was sharper than the sword he carried.
Thalen stepped forward and placed the cracked glyph disc on the table. Its fractured surface reflected the morning light, casting purple fractures across attentive faces.
"This," he began quietly, "is not just a Shadehand tool. It predates every cult flare we've seen. Ilara, explain."
