Far across the black waters of the Eastern Seas, the wind howled against the granite cliffs of Estalis— the fortress that crouched like a beast upon the coast. Lightning licked across the sky, throwing its light over the iron battlements and the black banners that snapped and twisted in the gale.
Inside the command center, the air was thick with the scent of oil, smoke, and leather. A diorama covered the entirety of the long table, miniature renditions of coasts and strongholds, dotted with markers in red and obsidian. A single torch guttered in the corner, its flame bending under the draft from the gap between the closed windows.
General Odin stood by the fire, unmoving. His armor, dark as midnight, caught the glow of the embers in sharp flashes. His eyes, pale and calculating, traced the shifting patterns of shadow along the stone walls. He looked like a man who had long forgotten warmth — and found comfort in the cold.