The war room was silent.
Not the silence of peace, but of something coiled—waiting to strike.
Valtor's generals stood in a half-circle around the great obsidian table, their faces carved from stone. Maps lay unfurled before them, inked with shifting lines that refused to stay still. The Rift's influence spread like a living thing, distorting borders, twisting landscapes.
But tonight, they weren't here to discuss the Rift.
They were here because something didn't add up.
A woman in plated black armor leaned forward, fingers drumming against the table. General Xyra, Valtor's strategist, her mind sharper than most blades.
"The Obsidian Shard is gone," she said, voice clipped. "But no one has moved to claim its power."
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
The Shard—Solmara's prize, the key to Rift dominion—should have sparked a war the moment it vanished. Rival factions should have torn each other apart for it.
But there was nothing.
No fighting. No whispers of rebellion.
