Thaluria Royal Palace
Dorian von Thalurian sat rigid upon the Black Throne as the last of the magic orbs flickered back into focus. The throne hall is silent, filled with anxiety and the low hum of lingering enchantments and the faint crackle of burnt sigils dying along the marble floor.
Eighteen warships, gone.
Ashburn Port. Luneshire Port. Both ships that were sent to both ports are reduced to wreckage and sinking ships beneath boiling seas. The images replayed themselves mercilessly in his mind: two towering vessels made from metal gliding through the sea and shooting cannon fire as if it were rain.
Thalurian spells, perfected over generations, shattered on contact. Their proud oak hulls split apart like children's toys struck by a hammer. Their warships had not even been allowed the dignity of a proper exchange.
