The moonlight bathed the Blackspire Citadel in an eerie silver glow, its towering spires looming like jagged blades piercing the heavens. The air outside was thick with the scent of ash and iron, remnants of the city's smoldering ruins far below, where conquered kingdoms still licked their wounds. Inside the grand hall, the atmosphere pulsed with heat and hunger, though no feast had yet been served. The obsidian table gleamed under flickering torchlight, its surface reflecting the faces of those who had bent the knee to Valen's iron will—dukes, high mages, warlords, their eyes a mix of fear and reluctant awe. Yet one chair, carved with serpentine runes and draped in crimson velvet, remained conspicuously empty.
The Duchess of Crimson Veil.
"She's late," growled General Korvax, his scarred orc-hybrid frame towering at Valen's side. His golden tusks glinted as he shifted, his hand resting on the hilt of a war axe. "Shall I summon her, my lord?"
