The head of House Valtair was pacing the length of the table in the stone hall, fury practically steaming from his shoulders.
"Those darn cultists!" he shouted in anger, his aether sparking with each burst of his voice, "They were supposed to take out the Valens and yet they could not even manage to take out the heir!"
"We gave them a golden opportunity, resources!" he barked, his voice echoing against the aged granite that ran along the walls, "There was supposed to be no way for them to fail; even lesser to fail completely!"
He slammed a fist onto the table, rattling scrolls and goblets.
Lord Cazir, the sharp-eyed strategist responsible for coordinating with the cultist network, averted his gaze. Lady Rhess, the diplomat of the house whose influence ensured plausible deniability, stiffened. And across from them sat Varn, a stoic beastmaster in ceremonial armor who was the House Guardian, his arms folded, unmoved.
