The refectory of Cloud-Rest was a low-ceilinged hall of giant stone granite. It was built beneath the castle’s central keep to survive a year of siege.
In the center of the room sat a massive table carved from a single slab of mountain oak, its surface scarred by hundreds of years of knife-carvings, spilled ale, and hot wax. A great iron hearth roared at the eastern end, fueled by dry birch logs hauled up from the lower cellar. It cast long, dancing orange shadows across the soot-stained vaults.
Sitting around the table was the most terrifying, exhausting, and dysfunctional council of war in the history of the Grand Duchy.
Sitting at the head of the table was Mira Vale.
She was fifteen years old, wrapped in her three layers of charcoal shawls. Her left hand held a wooden ladle. Meanwhile, her right arm—the smoky, lavender quartz limb—rested calmly on the oak tabletop. It glowed with a soft, steady soft glow that lit the plates around her. In front of her sat a huge iron kettle of boiled mountain lentils, dried salt-pork, and wild leeks. It steamed with savory heat.
Surrounding her were the six showed up silhouettes of Ren Vale’s burned lives.
