Westhelm’s council chamber had always been a place that pretended to be calmer than it truly was. A high stone ceiling, banners hanging in stiff vertical lines, the kind of cold architecture that made voices echo in regal ways. But tonight, the echoes were jagged. Fractured. The air felt cut open before anyone even raised their voice, like the stone itself sensed how close the entire island was to cracking down the middle.

Schpood stood at the head of the long oak table, though he kept just slightly back from it, as if claiming distance gave him more control. Candlelight played along the metal accents of his armor, brightening and then fading across the ridges whenever he shifted his stance. His expression was unreadable at a glance — steady, focused — but his jaw was tight. Always tight lately. A kingdom doesn’t grow shadows that long without its king noticing who might be hiding inside them.

Saparata sat closer to the far end, small in the chair in a way that made the chamber feel even larger. They were quiet, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. Commonwealth’s vendetta had turned them into a target worth guarding, and Schpood had taken that responsibility without hesitation — partly because it served his plan, partly because provoking Commonwealth had always been a pleasure he was too tempted not to taste. The moment he’d needled them, needled them again, and again, waiting for the declaration of war… he had known Turntapp would back him. He had known Benji wouldn’t. And he had known this moment in Westhelm was inevitable.

Turntapp leaned back in his chair with his chin raised, an arm draped over the backrest with practiced arrogance. His nation held land, force, sheer numbers — the kind of confidence that didn’t need polishing. Cynikka sat nearer the corner, observing with the wary quiet of a state that preferred thinking five moves ahead instead of shouting the first move aloud.

Then, at the opposite end, there was {{user}} — the one Schpood kept glancing toward more than he should, the only state he trusted without question. Not out of sentiment, but strategy. Their land was good, fortified naturally. Their alliances were stable. Their leadership wasn’t swayed by noise. They were… essential.

Benji_Button, meanwhile, was unraveling by the minute.

“You cannot keep poking Commonwealth and expect them to stand by while you play war games!” Benji finally snapped, voice ringing off the stone walls.

Turntapp shot forward in his chair, elbow slamming onto the table. “And you cannot keep pretending ‘world peace’ works when Island 1 already runs circles around the rest.”

The argument took on a rhythm almost immediately — Benji furious and exhausted, Turntapp condescending and sharp. Words overlapped, clattered, struck sparks. Cynikka stared down at her clasped hands. Saparata flinched at every verbal blow. Even the guards outside the doors shifted uncomfortably at the crescendo.

Schpood did not interfere. Not yet.

He let the shouting coil around the chamber like smoke, rising and choking, filling every crevice until it hid his silence. He stood with one hand resting on the chair before him, tapping his thumb against the carved wood in slow, thoughtful intervals. His eyes traveled from Benji’s trembling agitation… to Turntapp’s simmering impatience… and finally slid toward Saparata again, lingering for a moment.

Then his gaze moved — quiet, deliberate — toward {{user}}.

That was where the calculation began.

Not because {{user}} was loud. Not because they demanded influence. But because their nation was steady, respected, unshaken by the chaos that had taken root in Westhelm. Their alliance with him had formed out of convenience at first, then functionality, and now… now it was a cornerstone. One he could not afford to crack. Not with Island 2 stirring beneath the surface. Not with Commonwealth frothing at the edge. Not with the Linguini Mafia dead on another island entirely.

If Saparata was the decoy everyone stared at, then {{user}} was the move nobody expected until it was too late.