The Strategy and the Armor of a Tyrant

The moment lunch ended, I was ushered not asked, not suggested, but ushered into a strategy chamber.

My family was far too excited about this.

A grand table stood at the center of the chamber, its polished wood gleaming under the light of the enchanted chandeliers. A massive map of the training grounds was spread across it, weighted down by ornate daggers at each corner. Along the edges, stacks of old battle records, anatomy books, and what I was horrified to recognize as bestiary logs on the Ironclad Basilisk were neatly arranged.

My heartbeat drummed in my ears.

This was a level of preparation that should not be applied to a five-year-old's first battle.