The war room was colder than she expected.
Not physically. It was well-heated, with thick carpets and tall windows filtering in pale sun, but the air itself felt dense. Weighted with decisions, layered in silence, thick with expectation.
Beatrice stepped inside quietly.
The guards outside had let her through without question. The king's summons had made her entry unquestionable, even if her presence felt like an echo out of place.
The room's heart was the long oak table, wide enough to seat a dozen and worn smooth from decades of use. A sprawling map of Vasqueria and its bordering territories stretched across it, dotted with iron markers. She spotted the Crimson Line immediately, a red thread like a scar near the edge of Lucenbourg's border.
She wasn't the first to arrive.
