Count Marrowind, Viscount Edevane, and Viscount Thryne strode into the throne room of the Dukedom, the heavy thud of their boots echoing through the vast, hollow chamber.
Each man was clad in fur-padded coats, the fabric laced with the frost of a bitter morning ride. Their presence radiated cold authority, forged through years of command and conflict.
Towering marble pillars lined the hall on either side, rising from polished obsidian floors to the vaulted ceiling above. Between each pillar stood soldiers—silent, still, and stern—guardians of both tradition and power.
Tall arched windows stretched from nearly floor to ceiling, framing the walls like sacred murals. Sunlight spilled through the glass in golden streams, but the columns cast long, solemn shadows that broke the light into bands—half radiance, half gloom.
