Rainwater still clung to the stones of the ruined palace, now hastily swept clean. Wind from the western mountains blew through the shattered windows, carrying the scent of ash, wet moss, and something faintly metallic—like blood long dried and soaked into mortar. The great hall had once hosted the royal court in splendor, echoing with music, feasts, and the silken whispers of politics. Now it echoed with marching boots, voices sharp with purpose, and the low growl of dragons perched on balconies too fragile to hold their weight.
The war council was convening.
A long table had been raised in the grand atrium, where the roof had collapsed to reveal the grey-blue sky above. At its center, a massive war map had been laid out—hand-drawn in haste, patched and stained with soot and oil. Small wooden markers shaped like soldiers, dragons, and fortresses dotted the parchment. Some were freshly painted, others scorched. A single black pawn sat ominously to the east—marked Arakenys Dominion.
