The council chamber buzzed with low murmurs, the air heavy with the scent of damp wood and wax from flickering candles. The room was a cavern of old stone, its high ceiling arched with beams, walls lined with faded tapestries depicting wolf hunts. Long oak tables formed a semicircle, where council members and chiefs sat, their heavy chairs creaking as they shifted, their faces a mix of confusion and impatience. The rain had just stopped, leaving a strange stillness, and the sudden call to gather had set tongues wagging.
"What's this about?" Chief Barnd muttered, his deep voice rumbling, fingers drumming on the table, his graying hair tied back. "Storm barely clears, and we're dragged here?"
"Something's off," another council member, a wiry woman with sharp eyes, whispered, leaning toward her neighbour, her necklace clinking. "Vlad's never this hasty."
"Maybe more rogues," a younger chief grumbled, slouching, his boots scuffing the floor. "Thought we were done with that mess."
