The moment lunch ended, I was ushered not asked, not suggested, but ushered into a strategy chamber.
My family was far too excited about this.
A grand table stood at the center of the chamber, its polished wood gleaming under the light of the enchanted chandeliers. A massive map of the training grounds was spread across it, weighted down by ornate daggers at each corner. Along the edges, stacks of old battle records, anatomy books, and what I was horrified to recognize as bestiary logs on the Ironclad Basilisk were neatly arranged.
My heartbeat drummed in my ears.
This was a level of preparation that should not be applied to a five-year-old's first battle.
Verania and Sylvithra stood at the head of the table, their postures effortlessly commanding, while my grandparents took their places on either side. My mother's sharp crimson nails tapped against the wood as she scanned the materials. Sylvithra, ever composed, adjusted a silver gauntlet around her wrist as she eyed the map.
