Inside the dimly lit war tent, the air was thick with unease. The gathered lords sat around a heavy wooden table, their faces lined with tension, their hands either clenched into fists or drumming anxiously against their scabbards. None of them had ever imagined that their actions would bring them here—that what had begun as political maneuvering, backroom dealings, and whispered grievances would spiral into full-fledged civil war.
But it had.
And now, they had no choice but to see it through.
At the far end of the tent, standing with an unsettling calmness, was the priest. The very man whose presence had ignited the flames of conflict.
Draped in simple but pristine robes, his expression was composed, his hands clasped together in what might have seemed like reverence to an outsider. But the men around the table knew better. He was not here to pray—he was here to ensure that the war he had helped start would reach its inevitable conclusion.
