"Two nights ago," Eastiel's voice cut through the uproar, coldly shifting tone, silencing the space anew. "A report from my elite intelligence arrived on my desk. The Delanivis estate was breached. The target was singular. The Lord himself."
The grief was banked, now replaced by the crisp tone of a strategist reading a battlefield report.
"Some of you have already been informed of this… and of its inevitable escalation." His words were swifter now, clipped and businesslike, mapping the chaos for their benefit.
The Delanivis, nursing the humiliation of their failed power grab at Mount Saede, a move they'd justified with the false prophecy of Arkai's death, had instantly pointed east. The Vasilievs were the obvious, convenient culprit. Two rival powers, clashing over the same imagined vacuum, now had a fresh, bloody grievance.
And then, the very next night, the plot twisted.
