Three weeks had passed since the fall of Paradise.
The nobles of House Ashbourne, sworn vassals, commanders, and bound servants had come together—not in triumph, but in mourning. Beneath the mountain roots of Ashkelon, the hidden city built from blackstone and obsidian-veined marble, they gathered once more.
Above them, Paradise lay in smoldering ruins. Its white towers shattered, its gardens scorched, its people buried beneath ash and memory.
Now, in the torch lit depths of Ashkelon, the great war council of House Ashbourne convened.
With the reactivation of the ancient transportation channels—sealed since the Age of Fire—travel had become swift, fluid, and unimpeded. There was talk of leaving them open permanently, of bridging the scattered lands once again. But no bridge could mend what had been lost.
At the center of the obsidian hall, a round table carved from deeproot stone dominated the room. Around it sat the highest ranks of Ashbourne's remaining power:
