For the better part of the afternoon, two conversations ran in perfect, deadly parallel. One voice spoke in two rooms separated by hundreds of meters of unforgiving stone and ancient shadow, two distinct realities connected by a single, invisible thread.
They were perfectly synchronized because both rooms, despite their vastly different atmospheres, were hearing from the exact same source. One was a performance of heroism; the other was a rehearsal for genocide.
In the sun-drenched council chamber of Aethelgard, Valentina moved the discussion into the cold mechanics of logistics. Her movements were methodical, her eyes sharp as she traced troop estimates across a massive map spread across the central table.
She placed small, carved tokens—relics of Academy strategy passed down through generations—to mark projected formations. The room smelled of parchment, expensive incense, and the desperate hope of a dying nation.
