The war room of Dawnhaven was no longer the half-ruined hall Caedrion remembered as a boy.
Maps covered the walls now, drawn on parchment and slate, each inked with new borders, supply routes, and sigil-marks for garrisons.
Models carved from blackstone marked regiments, cavalry, artillery.
Candles guttered low in sconces, their wax dripping on bronze tables hammered flat from the ruins of old House Ignarion's banners.
Here, in the heart of his reborn city, Caedrion met with his blood.
Aelindria sat at his right, her hands folded carefully over the swell of her belly.
Even so, her eyes missed nothing as they swept across the maps.
She had always had a talent for grasping strategy, though she spoke little unless her words carried weight.
Sylene stood beside her, sharp and regal as ever.
She had the air of one who had endured every storm the world could conjure and still found herself unbowed.
