The polished oak doors creaked open as servants stepped out, leaving only the most trusted within.
At the center of the chamber stood a massive strategy table. A handcrafted replica of the surrounding territories stretched across it, complete with moving mana-projected units representing armies, fortifications, and supply lines. Markers illuminated red for the Consortium, blue for Greenvale's forces, and gray for neutral or destabilized regions.
The room's atmosphere was surprisingly pleasant for a war council. Not boisterous, but confident. Relaxed. The kind of energy born from steady, unquestionable progress.
Duke Alastair Greenvale leaned forward over the table, fingertips pressed together, eyes sharp like a hawk surveying the board. His jade cloak, embroidered with the house sigil—a silver stag under a crescent moon—flowed elegantly behind him.
