The battle had left the Great Hall in ruins. The towering columns that once stood firm now bore the scars of war, their surfaces blackened by fire and splattered with blood. Tattered banners, once bearing the proud insignia of Tenebralis, hung in shreds from the vaulted ceiling, swaying gently with the force of the dying battle cries.
In the flickering light of shattered sconces, General Ninloth stood with his sword raised, his breath steady, his grip unyielding. Across from him, framed by the ruined archway, stood Captain Thalor, his weapon still in hand, his stance composed. The remnants of the Black Council's mercenaries surrounded him, bloodied but still dangerous, their eyes flicking between the general and their leader, waiting for his command.
