The next morning. Firion City, Capital of Valgros Kingdom
Rain lashes against the palace windows, a soft yet relentless drumming that seems to echo the grim mood within the grand war chamber. Magic lamp flicker along the stone walls, their flames dancing as if disturbed by unseen hands. The atmosphere is thick, heavy with dread.
King Rewalt sits at the head of the long obsidian table, hands clasped tightly before him. His usually calm, commanding face is pale and tight with tension.
A high-ranking scout finishes his report with trembling hands. "…And just before dawn, our scryers confirmed it. Tirion has fallen, Your Majesty. The city was overrun before reinforcements could be dispatched. We… we believe the entire garrison has been wiped out or taken."
Silence settles like a shroud.
Rewalt's face twists, his jaw clenched. The sound of his knuckles cracking as he grips the edge of the table breaks the quiet.
