A crystal goblet shattered against the obsidian hearth of the Flint war room, spraying dark wine across the polished floorboards.
The patriarch stood before the long planning table, his volcanic aura flaring in suffocating crimson waves that forced his subordinate generals to avert their eyes.
"The royal title was granted one week ago," he snarled, his knuckles whitening as he leaned over the provincial maps, "yet the bastard crossed the northern border only this afternoon and three allied warlords were executed before sunset!"
"Lord Garrow's entire company broke within minutes," the young heir reported, stepping forward from the shadowed archway with a grim scowl. "The survivors claim the youth bisected Lord Malor with a single whip of celestial chain."
"Mobilize two cavalry legions from the eastern garrison," the patriarch commanded, his voice trembling with volcanic fury. "We march on that miserable valley tonight and mount his severed head above the town gate!"
