Thousands of miles away, the atmosphere inside Aethelgard's throne room was completely suffocating. King Voranthar sat rigidly upon his seat of twisted iron. He glared down at the center of the chamber, where a towering obelisk of cracked amethyst pulsed with frantic light.
The Grand Vizier stood before the crystal. His hands trembled slightly as he interpreted the magical resonance echoing from the stone.
"Speak," Voranthar commanded, his voice echoing through the silent hall.
"The capital fortress has fallen, Your Majesty," the Vizier whispered, refusing to meet the king's gaze. "The southern highway is entirely lost. Our remaining garrison forces are scattering into the mountains."
