The war hall was on the verge of erupting into a frenzy of mobilization, with captains already turning to bark orders to their runners, when a single, casual voice brought the entire room to a sudden halt.
"Hold on," Sol said, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade. "No need to rush just yet."
Every head in the room snapped toward him. The sudden interruption choked the rising war cries right in the throats of the vanguard captains.
Thauren, the Golden Lion Commander, paused mid-stride, his massive frame turning back toward the obsidian slab as his yellow pupil eyes narrowed with confusion and a hint of impatience.
Warchief Veylara kept her heavy bone-spear planted against the floor, her eyes drilling straight into Sol.
