Zirel pivoted without another word. His short cape whipped the air as he crossed the monumental gate, his footsteps echoing on the polished stone. Maggie fell in behind him, the shaft of her halberd clattering with each stride. The others followed in silence, like a collective shadow, a disciplined pack.
The corridor beyond the gate was narrow, lined with torches fixed to bronze sconces. The light danced across the metal plates, carving shifting glimmers on tense faces. Maggie advanced, helmet still fastened, senses sharp, noting every breath, every whisper. The scent of heated metal and weapon oil saturated the air.
They emerged into a low-ceilinged room with walls covered in maps. A massive oak table dominated the center, strewn with parchments marked with winding red and black lines. Wooden figurines marked strategic points. No chairs. No one sat.
Zirel took his place at the head of the table, gloved hands braced against the wood. His voice fell like an axe:
