The air in the war room felt heavy, suffocating even. A faint, flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls, illuminating maps, battle plans, and worn-out parchments spread across the oak table. The smell of damp earth clung to the underground chamber, a constant reminder of how far below the surface they were. Taeral Arana stood at the head of the table, his tall, lean figure shrouded in the half-light, his sharp features accentuated by the eerie glow. His black, tousled hair fell over his forehead, shadowing the intensity of his auburn eyes that blazed with inner turmoil, though his expression remained unreadable.

The voices around him rose and fell in waves of passionate argument, each general and advisor making their case for the upcoming assault. They had received crucial information about a supply convoy—a convoy that, if destroyed, could starve Cyran's forces and cripple the oppressive kingdom's grip on the nearby region. But there was a catch. The convoy would pass dangerously close to a small village, one that housed innocents, families who had no part in this rebellion, but who would undoubtedly be caught in the crossfire.

Taeral’s eyes never left the map in front of him, his gaze tracing the lines of roads, hills, and forests that marked their path to the convoy. His fingers hovered above the parchment, trembling ever so slightly, though no one else in the room seemed to notice. They were too caught up in their arguments, their voices louder with each passing minute, echoing off the stone walls.

Taeral could feel the tension tightening in his chest, every word slicing into his mind like a blade. His brow furrowed, and his hand fell to his side, clenched into a fist as he struggled with the weight of their words. He had led these people into this rebellion, had taken them from their homes and families, promising them freedom, a better future. Every decision he made brought them closer to that goal—yet, every choice also brought pain, suffering, and death.