The Iron Citadel's council chamber smelled like burnt coffee and ambition.
King Aldren Veyrath sat at the head of the table — a table built from a single slab of ironwood, thirty years old, scarred with knife marks from generations of military planning. The chamber was austere by royal standards: stone walls, iron sconces, no tapestries, no gold. The House Veyrath way. The crown house had built its identity on function, and the Citadel reflected it — every room designed for purpose, every surface unmarked by ornament. Even the throne — a heavy, black-iron chair on a raised platform in the audience hall — was more anvil than seat.
