The Silverveil family's main home was closer to a small town than a house. Its walled grounds held a mountain in the backyard and a forest at its foot, and the white mansion at the center sprawled wider than most stadiums, its walls pale in the mist.
In one of its hundreds of rooms, ten holograms sat around a long conference table, their faces broken up by static. The Ten Kings of the Grey Dragon Continent, each one a name that people whispered in the streets.
Above them, on a raised throne-like chair, sat a man with silver hair that fell loosely to his waist. Michael Silverveil, the Martial Emperor, the only one the world had ever known, tapped a finger against the armrest. The static in the room seemed to settle.
"I trust everyone knows why we're here."
No one answered. They didn't need to.
Another tap, and a map of the continent bloomed above the table. In each of the cardinal directions, a massive tear hung in the sky, already flickering out.
