The Hall of Tides was silent, but charged with an almost palpable tension. The polished wooden walls reflected the light from oil lamps, making the imperial map spread across the central table resemble a board of destiny. Red dots marked the southern cities that had already fallen to rebellion, and each of those dots seemed to pulse, as if fire itself beat beneath the surface of the parchment.
The Sacred Houses argued among themselves, their voices low and filled with concern. Some nobles waved scrolls, others leaned over smaller maps, tracing routes and possible strategies. Every gesture reflected uncertainty and fear: hands that trembled slightly, furrowed brows, broken breaths. Jin Long remained silent, seated on his throne, observing every movement like a predator measuring the terrain before attacking. His face showed no emotion, but his deep black eyes were like wells of contained fire.
