"Now," Elder Oriod said, eyes traveling across the room. "We were saying?"
For the next few hours, the council chamber remained steeped in strategy, calculation, and a tension so thick it seemed to settle into the stone itself. Maps were shifted across the scarred oak table, pins were moved, and borders were marked again and again in fresh ink.
Reports arrived in waves from messengers stationed at the northern and eastern ridges, each one carrying grimmer news than the last.
From what Vaeron could tell, Malachi seemed to move in a thoroughly similar pattern, which should be satisfying to know, but terribly concerning. He didn't seem to hide his tracks, but somehow allowed them to be traced.
"The northern watchtowers will require double reinforcement," Lord Lucerion said, one pale hand pressed against the map where the Frostviel cliffs curved like a blade across the continent. "If Deathhill has truly been compromised, then the crypt-lines are no longer secure."
