An hour later Vostyr pushed through iron-banded doors into the council vault. The chamber felt like the belly of some ancient beast: ironwood ribs arched overhead, meeting at a spined ridge; the air was thick with tallow smoke and the coppery tang of spilled wax. At the circular war table, commanders straightened as he entered.
A massive map of Valaroth dominated the tabletop—parchment darkened by grime, its inked rivers gleaming like snake backs under lantern light. Iron daggers pinned strategic sites; one dagger stabbed the tiny fortress icon of Ironleaf, a shard of red crystal impaled on the pommel to mark catastrophe.
Vostyr's gaze swept the faces around the ring.
