The war room was a chamber steeped in history, its walls lined with banners from past battles and maps etched into the stone floor like scars of old wounds. The air was thick with tension, laced with the scent of sweat, ink, and the faint metallic tang of sharpened steel. Nobles stood shoulder to shoulder around the central table, their voices rising and falling like waves against a storm-battered shore.
King Henry sat at the head of the table, his frame smaller than it once was, his crown resting heavily upon his brow. His voice, though weakened by age and illness, carried enough authority to silence the murmurs that had begun to spiral into chaos.
"The soldiers have been dispatched," he announced, his cane tapping once for emphasis. "Vice Commander Denish leads them as our field general. We've assembled a force of ten thousand men, three hundred mages, and fifty healers. It is not what I would call ideal… but it will have to do."
