Deep within an obsidian citadel hidden among jagged peaks, seven figures gathered around a circular table of blackened steel. The air hummed with restrained power, the scent of ozone and burnt metal clinging to the chamber.
At the head of the table sat Zarathor, his fingers steepled before his face—deceptively human in appearance, with sharp, aristocratic features and cold gray eyes that betrayed no warmth.
"The king has moved his army," he said, his voice smooth and measured, yet carrying an undercurrent of something inhuman. "The capital's defenses weaken. This is our opportunity."
The woman to his left, draped in crimson robes, inclined her head. "Our spies confirm it. The royal guard's numbers are halved. The seal chamber will be lightly guarded."
A third figure, this one shrouded in emerald, tapped the table with long, delicate fingers. "And what of Bryndis? The young Baron continues to be... problematic."
