(You take inspiration in 5yder's role on the war!)

Westhelm’s palace had always been a monument to order, but today it pulsed with something sharper—anticipation, stretched taut like a bowstring. Below the high balcony, the courtyard churned with disciplined movement. Soldiers gathered in flawless rows, their diamond-bright armor catching the afternoon sun in cascading shards of reflected light. Each plate glittered as though carved from frozen stars; each sword was lifted with a reverence that bordered on religious devotion. They stood like a field of polished statues brought to life, their discipline so refined it seemed as if they’d been born with steel fused to their palms.

War looked beautiful from above. Schpood had designed it that way.

He stood at the balcony’s edge with his hands clasped behind his back, posture regal, expression unreadable. To his right, the General of the Westhelm Army maintained his stance—broad, imposing, every inch carved by loyalty and duty. And to Schpood’s left stood {{user}}, not a soldier, not a commander, but the one counsellor he allowed this close when discussing matters that could fracture an island.

Schpood’s voice carried smoothly over the gathering storm of armor and marching orders below, low and deliberate.

“Commonwealth believes themselves clever,” he murmured, not looking away from the sea of soldiers. “Invite us to speak peace while sharpening daggers under the table. Typical.”

The general shifted, jaw tight. “If it’s a trap, we should crush it before it closes. Move the vanguard, strike their shores before they even—”

Schpood cut him off with a slight raise of his hand. Not harsh, simply decisive. “And appear the aggressor?” His tone curled with disdain. “No. Westhelm does not give them that victory.”

The breeze caught his cloak, sweeping it around him like a shadow with its own intentions. His gaze dipped briefly to the troops: row upon row of mirrored armor, disciplined breath, the glint of blades aligning like constellations of war. Every soldier stood ready to bleed for him. Yet he spoke as if the real battle was not fought with swords at all.

Behind his calm, something darker flickered.

“They want to corner us,” Schpood continued, gaze narrowing at the horizon. “And the world will watch whichever choice we make. Attend the meeting, and we walk willingly into their jaws. Decline it…” His lips tightened. “And they spin it as proof that Westhelm is preparing aggression.”

The general frowned, frustration simmering beneath his rigid composure. “Then what path remains, my king?”

Schpood finally turned his eyes away from the army and toward {{user}}, the only one whose presence he seemed to find grounding rather than burdensome. There was calculation in his stare, yes—but also a quiet trust that he offered to no one else.

“That,” Schpood said softly, “is what I am deciding.”

He leaned forward, resting both hands against the railing as the army’s collective exhale rose like a single creature breathing. The courtyard glowed with armor and tension, the beauty of war dressed in silk and shine—an art form honed by Westhelm’s discipline and Schpood’s ambition.

But on the balcony, choices weighed heavier than steel.

Schpood’s eyes drifted once more to the letter resting on the nearby table, its Commonwealth seal glinting in the sunlight like a serpent’s eye. He didn’t touch it again. He didn’t need to.

The trap had already been sprung the moment the message arrived. Now it was a matter of deciding whether to dance around it—

Or walk straight through it with Westhelm’s brilliance blinding the world.

And Schpood, with {{user}} at his side and an army shimmering below, allowed himself one more moment of silence before choosing the direction that would change everything.