"The royal family is supposed to pay the salaries…"
The words hung in the air, deceptively simple—yet they landed like a hammer blow.
The chamber fell deathly still.
Damien's eyes narrowed. His lips parted slightly, but no immediate response came. A deep frown etched itself across his face as he absorbed the implications.
He hadn't expected this.
He should've known. But hearing it now, so bluntly, shook him more than he cared to admit.
Slowly, he inhaled, steadying the storm swirling inside. His voice, when it came, was low but sharp.
"What is the amount?"
The three generals glanced at one another, a silent exchange of concern before Claymen finally spoke.
"We have roughly seven hundred men under arms," he began, tone careful, measured. "In addition, we'll need funds to reestablish the Southern Army's infrastructure…"
He hesitated for only a heartbeat before delivering the number.
"Altogether, we'll need… one thousand gold coins."
The room seemed to grow colder.
