Atop his towering driftwood-and-weirwood throne, shaped like a kraken’s unfurling maw, Lord Noah Krakenfell reclines like a storm held barely in check. His long fingers tap against the carved arms of the chair, the rhythmic drumming a slow war-beat in a room already tense with argument. The table before him, forged from blackened spruce older than the kingdom itself, is long enough to seat fifty warlords. Tonight, it holds squabbling lords and bickering daughters like a cage does quarrelsome falcons, noble, winged, and dangerous, yet tethered to their own pride.
The great hall, cold despite the roaring hearths, brims with ambition.
Outside, a sea-born storm grumbles against the stone walls of Krakenfell Citadel. Inside, a storm of words rises.
“We must join the Third Prince,” thunders L
