The heavy, iron-reinforced doors of the Winter Conclave cathedral were still vibrating from the final breach charges. Inside, the grand hall was an absolute graveyard of marble dust, splintered mahogany furniture, and the pungent, chemical stench of freshly discharged firearms. The battle had finally cleared, leaving only a heavy, choking silence in its wake.

Ethan Vale stood dead-center in the ruins. His dark gray eyes, cold, slate-colored, and completely unblinking, were fixed entirely on the splintered service exit doors at the far end of the sanctuary. A thin, jagged bullet graze on his upper left arm was leaking fresh, dark crimson, staining the sleeve of his tailored black shirt. He didn't seem to feel it. He stood entirely rigid, a statue of pure, silent fury.