The war room had never felt so crowded.
Maps covered the long oak table cities marked in red ink, supply lines slashed through, strongholds circled and crossed out like corpses on parchment. The air smelled of smoke, iron, and old arguments that refused to die.
Isabella stood at the head of the table.
Not seated. Not leaning. Standing.
Her hands rested lightly on the wood, fingers steady despite the life growing beneath her ribs. Her face was pale, eyes sharp, fire held carefully behind calm.
Around her, generals argued.
"This is madness," one of the Iron Crown lieutenants snapped. "Alessandro Moretti doesn't rush. He suffocates. We fortify, we wait him out."
"We don't have time," another countered. "He's already burning cities to send a message."
"A message we should not answer," Luca said quietly, arms crossed, gaze never leaving Isabella. "He wants a reaction."
That was when she spoke.
"And that," Isabella said calmly, "is exactly why we'll give him one.
