The great hall of Count Gregor's keep was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and tension. The count sat upon his ornate chair, his fingers gripping the carved armrests with such force that his knuckles turned white. His face was a mask of unrestrained fury, his dark eyes burning with indignation as he relived the disastrous battle in his mind.
"How?" His voice echoed off the stone walls, laced with disbelief. "How did they defeat my forces?"
His mind reeled as he recalled the sight of the battlefield. He had entered the war with a confident stride, leading an army of thirty thousand. Yet, despite their numbers, they had been utterly routed. Valtieri's forces were supposed to be weak—only ten thousand soldiers and a handful of mages. The odds had been in his favor. And yet…
The Valtieri territory, a mere backwater in his eyes, had somehow mustered the strength to repel his formidable army.
