Bruce remained still for a moment longer, absorbing the weight of what had just been forged.
Then he stood.
The three of them faced one another in the center of the throne hall, no longer monarch, guildmaster, and outsider. They were something else now. Architects of the next era.
The war had been silent for too long.
Now it had direction.
"For Velmora," Bruce said. His voice was low, steady, unwavering. And this time, it was not a declaration. It was a vow.
The frost lining the throne hall floor pulsed faintly, as if the very mana veins of the palace had registered the shift in intent. Something had solidified here, not merely an agreement, not merely strategy, but purpose sharpened into direction.
Isolde's gaze moved from Duke to Bruce.
This time, there was no ceremonial distance in her posture. No political veil. No layered formality meant for courtiers and observers. Only clarity.
