As Luke lowered himself onto the seat, he felt the weight of a dozen eyes settling on him. The room was grand but cold, built for war councils rather than comfort. The dim light from the hanging candelabras flickered against polished stone, casting shadows over the stern faces of those seated before him.
At the head of the table sat Commander Alec, his presence alone demanding obedience. His dark brown hair, streaked faintly with grey at the temples, was neatly cut, and his sharp, deep-set eyes bore the weight of years spent on the battlefield. A man carved by duty, his face was hardened by both time and war. His posture was rigid, and even as he sat, there was a commanding presence about him—like a statue that had long withstood storms yet remained unbroken. The armour he wore was practical, with only minimal embellishments, a stark contrast to the intricate designs of noble officers. A true warrior.
