[Silthara Palace — Council Chamber — Early Morning]
The palace had not yet fully awakened, but the council chamber was already drowning in urgency.
Scrolls lay scattered across the war table in a disorder no servant would have dared create. Maps of Zahryssar had been unrolled and pinned open beneath carved stone weights, red markers already pressed into the western and southern trade routes.
No one sat, no one relaxed, and no one spoke lightly.
Zeramet stood at the head of the table, one hand braced against the wood, golden eyes lowered over the newest report as though he might tear the parchment apart simply by reading it. Levin stood at his right, still in a pale morning robe hastily belted over his inner garments, the expression on his face calm enough to be dangerous.
The report in Zeramet's hand crumpled, not enough to tear. Just enough to warn everyone in the room that the Malik's patience was nearing its end.
"How many now?" Levin asked.
