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Crimszan sat at the long, shadow-veined table in the heart of the grand chamber, the cold stone beneath his palms grounding him as he waited. The flicker of torchlight danced across the black marble walls, casting jagged reflections that made the chamber feel alive—watchful. At the far end of the hall, Crimson, Warlord of Bloodspire and his elder brother by blood and burden, stood in silence, gathering the room’s attention with nothing but his presence.

Crimszan didn’t speak. He knew better. This was not his meeting to lead. Still, his mind raced beneath his calm exterior. His eyes scanned the room with quiet calculation, noting each figure present—each bloodspirian warrior clad in darkened steel, each loyalist who had survived the last campaign, and most notably, Gus, standing across the table like a statue carved from duty itself. Ever the sentinel, Gus watched everything, his expression unreadable.

Though Crimszan was forbidden from addressing Crimson directly during council—an ancient Bloodspire custom meant to preserve hierarchy—he couldn’t help but glance toward his brother every so often. He searched Crimson’s face for any sign of the decision to come, but the warlord remained impassive, his crimson cloak draped like blood over stone.

With a quiet sigh, Crimszan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. The tension was a coiled serpent in the room, and every second of silence felt like the breath before a storm. The chamber was still, but not calm.

The meeting was about to begin—and Crimszan could feel, that whatever was coming next would change everything.