The interior of Delwig's command fortress was as cold and austere as its exterior suggested.
Blackstone walls stretched upward into vaulted ceilings, lined with runes that pulsed faintly like veins of molten silver. Torches burned with steady blue flame, illuminating the chamber without smoke or flicker.
At the far end of the hall, behind a table layered with maps and reports, sat the man who commanded it all.
General Ivaan was not tall, but his presence filled the chamber with more weight than any towering figure could.
Broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, his armor was plain steel without ornament—but there was no mistaking the aura that rolled from him in waves, the pressure of a man whose will had cut through decades of war. His eyes, sharp and dark, flicked from Apnoch to Damien and his companions.
"Report," Ivaan said, his voice low, carrying like the strike of a hammer.
