Night fell upon the Conclave of Five Peaks, not as a blanket of simple darkness, but as a canvas upon which the ambitions of kings and gods were painted in glittering, treacherous light.
The Jorailian pavilion, once a structure of dark wood and quiet authority, was transformed. It was now a vision of opulent, yet intimidating, grandeur, a beacon that drew the eyes of every delegation in the valley.
Priscilla's enchantments were a masterpiece of subtle manipulation. The very air within the grand ballroom seemed to shimmer, infused with a gentle, almost imperceptible charm aura that soothed anxieties and lowered inhibitions. Illusions of a starlit, celestial sky glittered on the high, vaulted ceiling, creating a sense of boundless, breathtaking beauty. And discreet scrying artifacts, disguised as ornate, floating crystal decorations, drifted lazily through the air, their multifaceted surfaces capturing every whisper, every glance, every secret.
