This Can't Be Earth

The room was cloaked in shadows, lit only by a single, flickering bulb that swung lazily from the ceiling. Smoke curled in the stale air, thick and bitter, coiling upward from the cigar clenched between Donald's yellowed teeth.

The table before him creaked whenever he shifted, its legs uneven and old. Dust coated the corners of the room, and the air felt heavy, like something dangerous was about to unfold.

Donald sat at the head of the table, hunched slightly, his thinning hair slicked back, his fingers tapping slowly against the wood. His eyes, sharp despite the age in his face, scanned the three figures seated across from him.

Three Ascendants.

Three weapons dressed in human skin.

The first was Verran. He was tall, wiry, and dangerous in the way a blade was. His pale skin almost shimmered in the low light, and his emerald eyes were too alert, too focused.