69

Draven's pov

The cold bite of war lingers in the air, even beneath the glittering chandeliers of the war chamber.

I sit at the head of the long marble table, arms crossed, jaw clenched, surrounded by men whose hands are stained with blood and whose tongues drip with strategy. The walls are lined with maps, borders marked with red ink,enemy lines, fallen allies, shifting power. Every candle flicker casts a hundred more shadows than light.

They talk. I listen,partially.

Their voices blur into static.

"Draven," a gruff voice cuts through. "We're losing focus on the east flank. If we don't move soon, we'll lose territory."

I nod once, then glance at the projection. "Reinforce sector four. Move the Black Guard to the border, and have Levi scout the highlands. No one moves unless I say so."

A murmur of agreement echoes around the table.

But my mind… it's already gone.

Eira.