The grand, tapestried chambers of King Rouben Yachvili of Jorailia buzzed with hushed, urgent conversation. The King, a man whose ambition was as vast as his kingdom's eastern plains, sat heavily on his ornate throne, Alaric Steele's message still glowing faintly on the Phone Artifact clutched in his hand.
His chief minister, Lord Kaelen, a gaunt man with eyes like chips of flint, stroked his pointed beard. "Eight Archdemons, Your Majesty? And Ingranad himself? Against the Steele territory?" He shook his head. "An overwhelming force. Even with their formidable barrier, the odds are… grim."
General Tauron, his weathered face set in stern lines, his hand instinctively resting on the horcux-pommel of his greatsword, disagreed. "Grim, perhaps, Minister Kaelen, but not impossible! Steele's artifacts have proven their worth. His barrier is legendary. And the man himself… he is a Grandmaster of unparalleled talent. If we strike the demons from the flank, as he suggests…"
