The great pavilion was heavy with the scent of incense and oiled wood, its silken walls muted by the constant hum of mana drones outside. The images shimmered above the central table, clear as daylight: Marcus, Clara, and Elena standing over the charred remains of the fallen Dune Titan.
A ripple of murmurs passed among the nobles. Lord Edric de Nivaria's sharp features eased into something almost like pride. His voice cut through the air, calm but firm.
"Marcus fought well. As did Clara. Our house stands stronger for their efforts."
Marcus's father, seated humbly among the attendants, lowered his head in silence—his family had served the Nivaria line for generations, and now his son had made that service shine before every great house.
Thalanor von Lestaria chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "And my Elena—once again proving herself. Seems the younger generation is determined to make us all look old."
