The war table in the Nightborn stronghold was unlike anything Aria had seen. Hewn from blackened stone veined with silver, it pulsed faintly with ancestral power—magic rooted deep in the mountain's bones. The map etched upon it was no mere drawing; it shimmered with living movement. Rivers flowed. Forests swayed. Small flares of crimson lit wherever tensions sparked across the realm.
The Nightborn elders gathered around the edges, eyes keen, silent and waiting. The triplets flanked Aria—Dorian with his arms crossed, Tobias bent in scrutiny over the western ridges, Marcus already mapping exit strategies in his mind.
But it was Aria who stood at the center.
She placed her hand on the map, and the land responded—glowing with her touch, shifting to reveal troop movements, known allies, rogue dens. The Flameborn crown pulsed faintly on her head, resonating with the sacred table.
