A thick mantle of darkness smothered the grand audience chamber within the black basalt manor of House Flint, broken only by the crimson glow of burning brazier coals.
Shadows flickered across the massive war table carved from obsidian stone, where the senior officers, bloodline elders, and armored captains of the western realm stood in tense silence.
At the head of the table sat Duke Flint, his broad, battle-scarred features rigid with dark, volcanic fury that paralyzed the entire hall.
His iron gauntlet struck the table with a resonant crash that shook the silver goblets and scattered tactical maps across the polished surface.
"The King insults three centuries of noble blood to amuse the common rabble in the capital squares!" Duke Flint growled, his gravelly voice vibrating with the terrifying, suppressed mana of an old conqueror.
