The war room is a tomb repurposed.

Stone coffins line the walls, their occupants long since removed. In their place: maps, weapons, desperate plans scratched on parchment. A dozen figures stand around a central table, illuminated by flickering candles.

“These are the cell leaders,” Corvus explains. “Each one commands a group of fighters scattered through the city.”

You recognize some of them. The blacksmith who shoed the guard’s horses. The baker who gave you sweet rolls as a child. The librarian who taught you to read. Ordinary people, transformed by circumstance into something harder.

“So you’re the one,” the blacksmith says. “The gem-touched child. The one the prophecy speaks of.”

“I don’t know anything about prophecies,” you reply. “I just know we have a chance to end this. But I need your help.”

The librarian steps forward—a thin woman with steel in her eyes. “We’ve lost people trying to reach the gem. The square is a kill zone. Shadow creatures, Hollow Knights, magical wards that turn your blood to ice. What makes you think you’ll succeed where we’ve failed?”

You place the relics on the table.

“These. The founders’ relics. Together, they can break the Binding that holds Eldermoor captive.”

Murmurs around the table. The blacksmith reaches toward the Scales, then pulls back as they pulse with light.

“Even if you can break the Binding,” another leader says—a young woman with burn scars on her hands, “what about Varek? He’s not going to stand by and let you destroy his power base.”

“That’s why we need you. Not to storm the gem—that’s our job.” You gesture at your allies. “But to create a distraction. Draw his forces away. Give us the opening we need.”

“You’re asking us to sacrifice ourselves.”

“I’m asking you to fight. The way you’ve been fighting since this started.” You look around the table. “Some of you will fall. I won’t lie about that. But if we don’t try—if we just hide in these crypts and wait—Varek wins. The founders suffer forever. And Eldermoor becomes a shadow of what it was.”

Silence. Then the blacksmith laughs—a short, bitter sound.

“The child speaks like a general. Fine. You want a distraction? We’ll give you a war.”