DRAKENFELL — WAR ROOM
Tiberon Drakenfell did not open with pleasantries because Tiberon Drakenfell did not do pleasantries and every person at the table knew it.
The war room held five people. Tiberon at the head. Hyran to his right. Dexmon across from Hyran. Finnick Shadowclaw beside Dex, having portaled in twenty minutes ago with the specific energy of a man who had been summoned and whose summoning had better be worth the portal.
Serena sat at the far end, her hair still damp from a bath, her training suit already on, her body carrying the residual stiffness of a woman who had been shifting and fighting for days and whose body was running on fumes and discipline and the specific stubbornness that Tiberon had come to recognize as her primary fuel source.
A velvet box sat in the center of the table. Nobody had touched it.
"I am going to be realistic," Tiberon said. "The rest of you can be optimistic on your own time."
