The Flint family meeting room was quiet as the Patriarch sat at the head of the long table, his fingers drumming impatiently against the surface.
"It has been a week since that brat was given the land," he snapped, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the men sitting across from him, "when are we making our move? At this rate, the other houses will steal the region right out from under us."
He had been furious ever since the King handed the unowned region to his exiled son. The Flints had lobbied for that territory for years, and watching the other Great Houses prepare their own territory wars to claim it was driving him insane.
None of the men answered immediately, exchanging uneasy glances before one of the older commanders finally cleared his throat.
"Patriarch," he began, keeping his voice carefully pitched, "the only issue is the monster."
The Patriarch narrowed his eyes, his drumming fingers stopping as he leaned forward in his chair, "what are you talking about?"
