Northern stepped into the war room and the smell hit him first — polished metal, treated leather, and something else. Something that spoke of wealth so concentrated it had its own scent.

The room stretched impossibly upward, walls of dark metal that looked less built than grown, organic curves rising from foundations no craftsman's hands had shaped. The ceiling disappeared into heights that made the chandeliers — massive things glimmering with intricate patterns of blue light like captured constellations — seem to hang only halfway to the top.

'Those are aetherium…' Northern noted.

Aetherium. Extremely rare materials, according to what Eleina had said. But here they were using it as mere ornaments.

'It is rare because they want it to be rare.'

Ahead of him stretched a table so long it seemed like a warship itself, and around it the nobles had arranged themselves at careful angles — not random positions, but strategic ones. The King stood at the head, commanding the room without needing to say a word.

On the left side of the table stood the Prince, and beside him loomed an imposing figure — a man of refined lethality wearing scaled armor in deep forest green. The kind of man whose stillness carried its own warning. Next to him stood another, this one with wild burnished gold hair and a beard braided downward in thick cords. He wore a luxurious blue suit with delicate patterns woven through it, wealth displayed with the ease of someone who had never known its absence.

On the right side, the seat closest to the King sat empty. Northern noted that. Next to the empty chair was a man with short grey hair, his eyes closed, arms wrapped around a sword — while every other noble stood. Only he and the King were sitting, a privilege that meant something in this room.

The door closed behind Northern with a soft click, and King Ruger's voice rolled across the hall like distant thunder.

"Lord Northern! The man after my own heart! Welcome to my war room. Please, come have a seat here." The King tapped the right side of the table twice, smiling at Northern with what might have been genuine warmth.

Northern moved behind the chairs, walking smoothly, his pace unhurried. The cold atmosphere in the room didn't touch him — or perhaps more accurately, he simply didn't notice it. There were atmospheres, and then there was Northern.

He settled into the seat, and every other person followed, chairs scraping against the floor. The hall went silent for a moment, only the rustle of expensive cloth breaking the stillness.

Then King Ruger stood.

His face became something carved from stone — all trace of warmth erased, replaced by the countenance of a man who had ordered armies and watched kingdoms fall.

Northern found himself almost struggling to believe that the same man could make a face like that.

The King began his statement.

"Three days ago, the Reimgard Empire sent envoys to this throne room. You've all heard what transpired." His gaze swept the table, lingering on his son for a moment before moving on. "What you may not know is the intelligence we've gathered since. Admiral Yan."

Admiral Yan, seated among the lesser nobles further down the table, rose and bowed.

"Your Majesty. Our sources within the border territories report significant military movement. The Empire's Third and Seventh Legions have been repositioned to the eastern mountain passes. Supply lines are being established. Siege equipment is being transported." He paused. "Conservative estimates suggest forty thousand soldiers. Possibly more."

The number landed like a stone dropped into still water.

"Forty thousand," one of the Marquises repeated. The gold-haired one in the blue suit — his earlier ease had evaporated. "Against what? Our standing army numbers twelve thousand at full muster. And that's if we pull every garrison from every border."

"The mountain passes—" another noble began.

"The mountain passes have held before," King Ruger interrupted, "against forces a fraction of this size. Against armies that weren't truly committed to breaking through." He leaned forward, his stone-carved expression unchanged. "The Empire has never brought its full weight against us. They're doing so now. The question before this council is simple: what do we do about it?"

There was silence for a bit.

Then the gold-haired Marquis spoke again, his voice careful. "Your Majesty, perhaps diplomacy—"

"Diplomacy." Prince Rieran's voice was bitter. "They came here to provoke us. Every word out of that envoy's mouth was calculated to give them justification. There is no diplomacy with people who've already decided on war."

"The Prince is correct." This from one of the Earls — a thin man with a perpetually worried expression. "But that doesn't change our position. Forty thousand soldiers. Siege equipment. We cannot match those numbers. We cannot even come close."

"Then we make them pay for every inch," Duke Sethran said. His voice was deep, measured — the voice of a man who had commanded armies and buried soldiers. "The passes are narrow. Siege equipment means nothing if they can't deploy it. We bleed them. We make this conquest cost more than it's worth."

"And how many of our own do we bleed in the process?" The worried Earl again. "How many sons do we send into those passes knowing they won't return? For what? To delay the inevitable by months? Weeks?"

"You would have us surrender without a fight?"

"I would have us survive." The Earl's voice cracked slightly. "My lands border the eastern approach. My people will be the first to burn. Forgive me if I'm not eager to watch them die for pride."

The gold-haired Marquis nodded slowly. "Lord Eryx raises a valid point. The Empire's terms, while... insulting... were not terms of annihilation. Vassalage is not death. Our people would live. Our culture would—"

"Be erased within a generation." Duke Sethran's jaw tightened. "I've seen what happens to absorbed territories. The Empire doesn't conquer — it digests. Your children will speak their language. Your grandchildren won't remember yours."

"But they'll be alive."

Northern watched.

He said nothing. His expression revealed nothing. But behind that mask, he was cataloging every word, every gesture, every flicker of fear poorly disguised as pragmatism.

'This is what passes for leadership in Ryugan.'

The debate continued, voices rising and falling like waves against a shore. The Earls spoke of their territories, their people, the impossibility of the numbers. The Marquises spoke of terms, of negotiation, of managed surrender. Even those who argued for resistance did so with the tone of men arranging their own funerals.

"What of allies?" someone asked. "Surely other nations—"

"What other nations?" The gold-haired Marquis laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Caevlyn citadel has its own problems after the recent death of the headmaster. The southern kingdoms are too far and too fractured after the recent disaster. And everyone else is either already under the Empire's shadow or smart enough not to draw its attention."

"We stand alone, then."

"We've always stood alone. The mountain was enough. Until now."

Another silence fell, this one was heavier than the last.

Then Duke Sethran spoke again, and something in his voice had changed. The steel was still there, but beneath it — something that sounded almost like grief.

"I have trained soldiers my entire life. I trained His Majesty. I trained his sons and his daughter. I have studied warfare, breathed it, bled for it." He looked down at the table, at his hands — hands that had held swords and shaped warriors. "And I tell you now, as someone who has never run from a battle in his life... I do not see how we win this."

The words fell like a executioner's blade.

If Sethran — the Victorious Son of the Dragon Flame, the man who had never lost — was admitting defeat before the war even began...

"The passes can hold," he continued, quieter now. "For a time. We can make them pay. But forty thousand soldiers, with more behind them? With the full resources of an empire backing their campaign?" He shook his head slowly. "We would need a miracle. Or an army we don't have."

Northern's gaze shifted to the other Duke — Jiro the Grey, the blind swordsman who had sat in silence throughout the entire discussion. The man's eyes remained closed, his arms wrapped around his sword, his breathing so steady he might have been asleep.

But he wasn't asleep.

The room seemed to look to Jiro as well, waiting for the strongest man in Ryugan to offer something — hope, perhaps. A solution no one else could see.

Jiro said nothing.

The silence stretched.

"Then... what is the consensus of this council?" King Ruger's voice was heavy. "Do we fight a war we cannot win? Or do we seek terms while we still have leverage to seek them?"

The Earls exchanged glances. The Marquises shifted uncomfortably. Even Duke Sethran seemed to have no more words.

One by one, gazes dropped to the table. The gold-haired Marquis opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"Perhaps... perhaps we should consider—"

"Enough."

The word wasn't loud. Northern hadn't raised his voice at all.

But the room went silent as if he'd screamed.

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