In a dimly lit chamber, where shadows dance under the flickering glow of enchanted blue-flame braziers.
The air is thick with the rich scent of aged wine and polished oak, mingling with an unsettling metallic tang,perhaps from concealed daggers lurking in the corners.
Gathered around a sleek, circular obsidian table are five figures, low-ranking nobles from minor houses, each exuding an air of smug arrogance that only those who think themselves untouchable can muster.
Their embroidered sigils mark them as vultures circling their prey: the crumbling Morningstar Empire.
At the head of this gathering lounges Lord Cedric Drakemere, his oil-slick black hair framing a serpent-like smile that could charm or chill.
His fingers tap rhythmically on the table, a sound echoing like a death knell in this den of intrigue.
"So," he drawls with feigned nonchalance, "it seems we've been played for fools."
