The underground stronghold of Mulan was dim, lit by hanging crystal lanterns that flickered with a cold, etheric glow. Despite the heavy stone walls and fortified checkpoints, an air of desperation still clung to the place; no one had the smiles or relief on their faces.
Now, deep inside the command structure, in a cavernous chamber known as the War Room, or what Mark called it, a different kind of stillness had settled.
The round table was made from obsidian mined from the planet's veins over the course of years. Very sturdy but also brittle, just like Mulan City. Around it sat the remaining captains, lieutenants, elite fighters, and the Lord of Mulan. Most were quiet, tense, trying to make sense of the power the young outsider had displayed on the surface.
At the head of the table, Mark sat casually but confidently, one leg crossed, fingers interlaced before him.
He finally spoke.
