The chamber was built for permanence.
Black stone walls rose in clean angles, etched with runes that marked treaties older than several mountain ranges. These were mostly treaties between tribes of the same race, for the Elvardian Alliance between the dwarves and elves was a more recent event, only a couple of tens of thousands of years old.
A circular table of pale rootwood sat at the center, its surface unmarred by blades or cups. It was a place meant for decisions, not comfort.
Queen Myrasyn sat at its edge with her hands folded within the sleeves of her robe. Blonde hair fell straight down her back, bound by a simple clasp. Her gaze rested on the sigil circle carved into the table, calm and distant, as if the world beyond it moved on a slower rhythm.
King Ragnar remained seated on his raised throne. Broad shoulders filled the carved chair that had been shaped with him in mind.
