The long table was crowded with maps, tallies, and stacks of parchment marked with red ink. The smell of burned wax and oil from the lanterns mixed with the iron tang of tension.
Duke Alastair Greenvale stood at the head of the war table. His teeth were gritted as he studied the markers showing troop movements across the front.
"The competition for the duchy is heating up, My Lord," one of his generals said carefully. "The Fujimori moved their armies the swiftest; our reports suggest they've taken the lead in points."
*Bam!* Alastair's fist hit the table, shaking the figures on the map. His voice came out low, rough from anger. "I have to compete to reclaim my own ancestral land. What a joke! That damned Alexios thinks he can strip me of what has been mine for generations?!"
"Yes, that is exactly what he thinks," came a new voice from the doorway.
