The war room of the mansion was heavy with tension, the air thick with the scent of aged wood, burning wax, and the damp cold that seeped in through the stone walls. A long table stretched the length of the chamber, its polished surface now cluttered with parchment—maps of contested regions, supply reports, and unfinished tactical plans marked with deep ink strokes.
At the head of the table sat Queen Elowen Blackthorn, poised in quiet authority. The dim candlelight flickered across her silver hair, braided back in intricate loops, her dark armor reflecting the faintest glint of firelight. Her gloved fingers rested lightly on the arm of her chair, her expression unreadable.