The Treaty of Moz

The smell of burnt oil and ozone still lingered in the courtyard, and the sky above Moz hadn't stopped rumbling since the Stormbreaker arrived.

Its massive engines hovered like a goddamn thundercloud, casting the fortress in a cold, bluish gloom. Birds wouldn't even dare to cross under its shadow.

Inside the room now, the temperature had shifted. The Aurelians had prepared the table, fresh parchment, and brass-inked pens—but no one dared to sit until Alberto gave the nod. He didn't. He just stood there, eyes trailing over the room like a butcher choosing which pig to slice first.

Callum stood stiff, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight his gums were starting to ache. Alberto was only a few years older—maybe four at most—but the man carried himself like he'd lived twice a lifetime. No crown, no overdone regalia, just a long black coat, silver-lined. But Callum had no doubt—this bastard had seen war.