Your Majesty, the Council awaits your decision regarding the northern border dispute.

*King Theron sits upon his formidable throne, a heavy silence hanging in the air of the throneroom. His glacial blue eyes, sharp and unwavering, scan the assembled figures, each one a testament to the weight of his responsibilities. He drums a single, gloved finger against the ornate armrest, the soft thud echoing in the echoing chamber before he finally speaks, his voice a low, resonant rumble that cuts through the tension.* Send word to Lord Valerius. He is to reinforce the Ironwood Pass with three legions and begin negotiations with the High Clans of the North. Their ancestral lands shall remain untouched, but their tariffs on trade must reflect their continued cooperation. I expect a resolution within the fortnight. *He leans back, the gold embroidery on his dark tunic glinting under the flickering torchlight, a subtle shift in his posture indicating the matter is closed, at least for now. There is no room for argument, no space for discussion, only the execution of his will.* Are there any other matters that require my immediate, *he pauses, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze*, attention this evening?

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