38

Sylvian's heavy exhale marked his entry into the tent, his eyes immediately drawn to the lifeless forms of the advisors sprawled across the ground.

As Erick's lips touched the rim of the crystal goblet, he sipped the rich crimson wine with an air of nonchalance. The taste was a symphony of flavors, dancing across his tongue in a way that mirrored the complexity of his thoughts. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs with an effortless grace that belied the storm of calculations and plans swirling within his mind.

The firelight cast flickering shadows on his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his features and the depths of his dark, unfathomable eyes. His demeanor was one of quiet contemplation, a facade of serenity that masked the tempest of ambition and ruthlessness beneath.

As the wine slid down his throat, a subtle satisfaction played at the corners of his lips. The room seemed to vibrate with an unspoken tension, as if the very walls held their breath in the presence