The war-room of Blackridge Dominion was carved directly into the jagged cliff-face overlooking the glacial coast of Kesserreach. It was all dark steel and frost-laced stone, its walls enchanted to resist both magic and age. Faint blue light glowed from mana filaments coiled into the ceiling, casting long shadows over the obsidian war-table below. Upon it, a territorial map of the continent flickered softly—runes shifting, borders glowing where tensions burned hottest.
Guildmaster Varent Illowen stood at the head of the room, arms folded behind his back, his breath a steady stream in the chill air. He was a tall man, silver-haired but far from old, his bearing more akin to a blade kept sharp through necessity. His eyes, pale and near colorless, scanned the map with the same glacial patience he was infamous for.
"Philps and Hartley," he said at last. "Their conflict's escalated again."
