Inside the Royal Conference Hall of Valthorn
"Oh, it's been a while, old Claymen."
Rebecca's voice echoed casually through the chamber as she strode across the gleaming stone floor and slid into one of the empty seats at the round obsidian table. Her thick red braids bounced slightly with each step, and the massive sword strapped to her back clinked lightly against the chair.
Claymen Maroone, seated with a calm, unmoving posture, responded only with a soft smile. His gaze was warm, his demeanor patient—as if her casual greeting was expected. He said nothing, choosing instead to rest his heavy arms on the table's carved edge.
Aside from that single exchange, silence prevailed.
The tension in the room was thick, like fog before a storm. Yet it wasn't hostility that hung in the air—it was curiosity. Eyes, sharp and discerning, hovered on Devrok and Damien, questioning them without words.
The guardians of Valthorn had gathered:
The stoic protector of the East—General Iron Fist.
