SHADOWCLAW — WAR ROOM
The door closed behind them with the quiet finality of a coffin lid.
Tiberon did not sit. He stood at the head of the table with his hands clasped behind his back and looked at the two Alpha Kings standing across from him, both still carrying the residual flush of a forced de-shift, both bleeding from wounds that were healing in real time, both radiating the specific tension of men who knew they had performed badly and were waiting to learn the cost.
He let the silence do its work.
Silence was Tiberon Drakenfell's preferred instrument. He had watched men confess to treason in silences shorter than this one. He had watched generals recant battle strategies. He had watched his own son, on multiple occasions, fill the void with words that became ammunition.
Dexmon lasted eleven seconds.
"I know what you are going to say."
