Far from the clamor of the training ground where Drevan and Morwen were still exhausting themselves striking metal and dust, Cliff held council under the main tent.
The worn canvas barely filtered the light, creating a dim, almost oppressive atmosphere.
Around the makeshift table, there were Cain, Rakahn, and Dahlia.
The core group. The real deal.
All four were discussing, with maps and reports at hand, the matter of the day: the taking of the Manticore Castle.
Sevirea, the great satyr, had seen his domain fall—devoured by flames and the rage of a Titan now dead under Cliff's own blows.
His castle, now empty, no longer posed an immediate threat.
But for the Manticore, the story was different.
The tyrant had woven a dense network of vassals, creatures, and factions clever enough to prepare for a battle against the Cursed Serpent…
Or simply cowardly enough to hide and wait to see who would be left standing after the storm.
The result?
