The heavy wooden doors creaked open.
Lucavion stepped inside, his black coat swaying slightly as he moved. His steps were calm, measured—as if he had all the time in the world. He wasn't tense, nor did he look particularly intrigued by what was happening. He simply arrived.
Draven sat at the head of the long, dimly lit table, his fingers lazily tapping against the wood. Around him, the room was not empty.
Several figures occupied the seats, some leaning back with crossed arms, others sitting upright with sharp, unreadable gazes. These were not mere mercenaries.
They were the power players of Varenthia.
Vyrell Fenrick, the cold-eyed strategist of the Dusk Fang Syndicate. An older man, clad in dark robes, his face lined with experience rather than age. A thinker. A planner. The type who saw the world as a chessboard and rarely made a move without considering the entire game.
