The hall of Drakwyne was vast and built for intimidation. Its walls were carved from black stone and reinforced with iron plates bolted directly into the rock. Torches burned at fixed intervals, their flames steady, filling the space with heat and smoke. The floor was stained dark in places where blood had soaked into the stone over the years and never entirely faded.
At the far end of the hall sat the throne, which was made of bone and iron. Skulls of wolves, humans, and creatures no longer named were embedded into its frame. They were not arranged neatly. Some were cracked. Some were missing jaws. Others were burned. They were reminders.
A hooded figure sat upon it, his posture rigid, his hands resting on the armrests as if restraining himself from tearing the throne apart. His face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but his voice filled the hall without effort. It was deep, controlled, and dangerous.
"I told you to pull out our men."
