The war council of Zura gathered beneath the dome of the Obsidian Hall, where torches spat shadows across polished stone and the banners of past conquests swayed like watching eyes. The walls of the hall was made from marbles the color of obsidian, hence the name.
King Roman sat rigid upon his throne, his fingers drumming against the armrest in slow, deliberate rhythm. The silence was suffocating until his voice broke it, low and venomous.
"The pirates were expendable. Tools. Nothing more. Yet their loss cuts deeper than it should." His gaze swept the chamber, falling on generals and ministers who dared not meet his eyes. "Tell me, then—what does it mean when tools fall? That the hand guiding them grows weak? Or that another hand rises stronger?"
