The war room was built for intimidation.
Massive oak table stretching twenty feet, walls lined with maps marking every territory of the empire, weapons mounted like trophies from a hundred conquered enemies. But what made it truly unsettling were the windows—floor to ceiling glass overlooking the courtyard where Alistair's head still decorated a pike, a feast for the crows.
A reminder. A promise.
I stood at the head of the table, the Chronicle of Threads open before me, my previous self's warnings etched into every page. Darius sat to my right, and arrayed around the table were the people we'd decided to trust—a dangerously short list.
Ethan, commander of the imperial guard. Solid, loyal, with a reputation for brutality that made even hardened soldiers nervous.
