The heavy oak doors sealed shut, plunging the war council into a thick, expectant silence.
Lord Kent took the head of the massive table. To his right sat Maltida and High Mage Kelvin. Opposite them were the two Vice Commanders: Elara and Ulric Stone.
Elara kept his eyes locked on the grain of the wood, his posture rigid. Being invited to the high command was an honor; being seated beside General Stone was a punishment. The scarred general hadn't said a word, but the sheer gravity of the man was making Elara sweat through his collar.
Kelvin, catching the kid's white-knuckled grip on the table, slowly pushed his chair back. "General Stone," the elderly mage offered, his tone perfectly mild. "Would you mind swapping seats with me? The lamplight is much kinder to my eyes on that side of the map."
Ulric gave a curt nod and stood. Kelvin took the seat next to a quietly exhaling Elara, while Ulric moved across the table to settle in beside Maltida.
With the room settled, Kent gave Ulric a slight nod.
Ulric didn't waste breath. He delivered a cold, surgical breakdown of the southeastern front, seamlessly handing the floor to Kent and Maltida, who detailed the bloodbath at Oakhaven and the village elder's betrayal.
"The Elves will lick their wounds for a while," Maltida summarized, leaning back to eye Ulric. "But when they return, it will be a nightmare. Avenging their pride always is. Still... supply wagons, poisoned chains, and scroll-bombs. An unorthodox slaughter, Ulric. I'd hate to be across a battlefield from you."
"I imagine," Ulric replied, his face a scarred mask. "But a mind like yours poses a far greater threat, My Lady."
Maltida smirked. "Someday, I want to know exactly how Percival Kent managed to beat you."
"It will be my pleasure to tell that story. But first—" Ulric reached into his heavy coat and dropped a canvas bag onto the center of the table. It landed with a hollow, pathetic thud. "We are out of black powder. If we don't restock, we lose our artillery."
Kent rubbed his jaw, letting out a long breath. "That's a problem. A Greenskin raiding party hit the dwarven supply train at the river crossing. The powder wagons went into the water. Cargo's ruined, and we have no timeline for the next shipment."
"Perfect," Maltida muttered, crossing her arms.
Kelvin raised a hand, his fingertips pooling with soft, blue light. "My Lord, the Dwarves are currently marching on the Iron Horn. They are six days out. We need a defense."
With a flick of his wrist, Kelvin projected a glowing, three-dimensional illusion of the Iron Horn fortress onto the wood, mapping out the surrounding ridges and valleys.
Maltida and Ulric stared at the glowing blue walls for a long moment. In unison, they shook their heads.
"Holding that against a Dwarven siege is suicide," Maltida said flatly.
"Their cannons will take the gates off their hinges in an hour," Ulric agreed. "And once the walls are breached, our infantry is dead."
"Mortars," Maltida pointed to a glowing spot behind the illusory Dwarven lines. "Deep-earth steel. High-arc fire designed specifically to butcher men trapped in a courtyard."
"And Hellfire volley-guns covering the breach," Ulric added. "They'll shred our heavy cavalry the second we try to push out. Pierces horse armor like paper."
For the next twenty minutes, the room devolved into a rapid-fire tactical debate. Maltida and Ulric tore the magical map apart, trading unit placements, flanking routes, and choke points. They ran dozens of scenarios. Every single one ended in a slaughter.
"Defending that fortress," Ulric finally sighed, leaning back, "is like filling your pockets with iron and hoping to swim."
"Agreed," Maltida frowned.
Kent, who had let them argue while quietly watching the map, finally spoke up. "We aren't defending it." He gestured to Kelvin. "High Mage. Show us the northern border pass."
The Iron Horn vanished, replaced by a treacherous, winding road choked by snow-heavy pines and sheer drops.
"We don't wait for them," Kent said, tapping the snowy choke point. "We hit them here."
Maltida and Ulric stared at the projection.
"We'll be butchered," they said simultaneously.
"We aren't fighting a pitched battle," Kent pressed, leaning over the table. "Hit and run."
"In deep snow?" Maltida scoffed. "That's a death sentence."
"Our only objective," Kent said softly, "is the supply wagons. We take their black powder, and we vanish."
Maltida's eyes narrowed, darting across the icy ravines as her mind ran the math. Ignore the cannons. Hit the cargo. Bleed them and run.
Beside her, Ulric let out a low, dangerous chuckle.
"You've calculated the odds, General?" Maltida asked, glancing at him.
"Didn't need to, My Lady," Ulric smiled. "I used to be a bandit. And stripping heavy cargo in a snow-blind pass is the easiest work in the world."
Maltida raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."
"High Mage Kelvin. Vice Commander Elara," Kent's voice cut through the room, suddenly sharp. "You leave for the northern border the second this meeting adjourns."
Elara froze. The color drained completely from his face.
Kelvin merely bowed his head. "Yes, My Lord."
Maltida and Ulric stared at Kent. Sending the High Mage was one thing, but pairing him with the rookie on a critical raid was madness.
"Relax," Kent waved off their silent judgment. "Kelvin anchors the strategy. Elara learns how to lead. It'll be an excellent trial for the boy." He shot a glance down the table. "Right, Elara?"
Elara jumped, his knee cracking against the oak table. "Yes, Commander! I won't let you down, sir."
Maltida shared a deeply skeptical look with Ulric, but Kent was already moving on.
"So. Elves handled. Dwarves ambushed. Powder secured," Kent muttered, his tone dropping back to a dangerous baseline. He locked eyes with the young Vice Commander. "Which leaves Oakhaven. Tell us about the Greenskin gold, Elara. And tell us exactly what the villagers said about Mugai."