The fire in the grand hall of the Lockwood Manor crackled merrily, casting flickering shadows that danced across the faces of the Council of Elders. Barnaby Lockwood stood at the head of the long oak table, his brow furrowed in concern. An air of unease hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the usual jovial atmosphere that accompanied these meetings.
Eldred, the wizened leader of the Council, his beard as white as winter snow, cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the vast hall. "Barnaby Lockwood," he began, his voice raspy with age, "you have summoned us here on short notice, interrupting the very important matters concerning Eleanor's trial. Do explain why this sudden urgency?"
