Braenhall city, war council chamber
The war table is heavy with maps and scattered intelligence scrolls, its surface lit by dim, flickering lanternlight. A breeze whispers through the open windows—cool, dry air carrying with it the faint scent of ash. Braenhall is theirs now. But there is no celebration here.
Gander sits at the far end of the room, his pale fingers stained with ink as he slowly etches a sigil onto a parchment with a bone-quill. Across from him, Gorath leans against the wall like a boulder given breath—his ten-meter frame crouched unnaturally just to fit into the stone chamber, one elbow propped lazily on a reinforced support beam that creaks under the weight.
Varkas paces near the window, wolfish eyes sharp in the dim light, arms crossed over his broad chest. His claws twitch occasionally, betraying the restlessness in his frame. The air is thick with tension, like all of them are waiting for the sky to break open.
