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The war room at Castle Ensis was carved from obsidian blackstone and old granite, lit by braziers that burned with sorcerer’s flame—blue and lapping like the waves of the ocean. A long stone table, veined with silvery threads along its edge that shimmered faintly with lunar magic, stretched through the center of the chamber. Upon it were spread maps older than some of the knights seated around it.
Rellana sat at the head, arms folded, short black hair topping her abrupt scowling face. Her armour shimmered, silver steel chased with the drape of Carian blue and gold. Even her twin blades bore witness to it all, held onto by two boyish squires the moon lord had become fond of.
She’d always been a woman of conviction and sheer will. But conviction didn’t always cover the unease that writhed within her, much like her lord’s serpents.
“The southern Shadowlands,” said sir Messala, one of the older Carian knights, his voice grave, “is choked with the influence of Towerfolk. We’ve little influence in the lands beyond the tow’ring cavernous cliffs. There’s no knowledge of what lies beyond it.”
“We’ll make knowledge,” came the low growl of Commander Anhuket, the Fire Knight. His red cloak bore the telltale signs of experimentation, singed at the edges and very hastily patched back together, likely by some knave. “We don’t need a grand marching procession to take those lands. We only need to overrun and hold any ground we can. Every step south is a step in the name of Lady Rellana and Lord Messmer.”
Moonrithyll, the palace chamberlain, shifted in her seat. “And what of the trolls? Surely they could be of use to the cause? One footstep and five enemy combatants are crushed to paste. I have seen it,” she assured.
Rellana’s jaw tightened.
“You lead them. I cannot ensure the safety of both my men and the trolls in the same battleline. Surely you understand. Size, while overlooked by the towerfolk, can become a death knell. Their lion warriors, sizable as they are, were horribly exposed, even in the most stealthy positions. I need not suffer the same.”
She rose and paced the side of the table, trailing her pristine gloved fingers across the old maps. “The Lord’s word is clear. The south must be secured—up to the coast. We cannot allow further blight to continue growing, nor can we permit the damned demihumans to band together and mount defenses against us. Surely you remember Queen Marigga,” she scoffed.
Sir Messala nodded solemnly. “We lost many good men against her. That land still stinks of death.”
Rellana turned her eyes to him—sharp, unreadable.
“Precisely. We are presented with a number of objectives to complete, but I trust you all to attend to them.” A silence followed, broken only by Rellana’s own sighing through her nose, lips pressed into a firm line.
“When our great new order rises from the ashes, an order where Lord Messmer’s grace shines over us all, an order where I–and many under me–will be raised to further grandeur, we will all look back to this sacrifice and rejoice. The Twin Moons determine it so.”