Inside the war tent, tension lingered, thick and heavy, mingling with the scent of burning oil from the dimly lit lanterns.
At the center of the room, a map of the northern territories lay spread across a dark wooden table, its edges weighed down by daggers, small stones, and empty mugs. Aric stood over it, his eyes tracing the lines of the settlements he had marked, his mask casting a cold shadow across his face.
Across from him stood Yrsa, the Legion commander. Her imposing frame was wrapped in thick furs, her violet eyes gleaming with both curiosity and wariness. The weight of her two-handed axe seemed almost irrelevant against her slender build.
Behind her, a handful of Northrender warriors stood, each radiating quiet, deadly confidence. Their presence carried an aura of intimidation, but beneath it was something more significant than simple menace—a profound assurance that, at any moment and without hesitation, they were prepared for battle.
