The guards flanking the heavy, rune-carved door exchanged an unreadable glance through their visored helms. A moment of silence stretched, then one guard nodded almost imperceptibly. “He is expecting Edward's report,” the deep, muffled voice stated. “The Guildmaster permitted his presence. You may join them.” The tone held a clear warning: Don't waste his time. “But be warned,” the other guard added, his voice equally flat, “the situation is… volatile. Discussions are ongoing.”

  “Understatement of the fiscal year,” William thought dryly, noting the almost palpable tension radiating even through the thick oak door. “Judging by the operational tempo downstairs and Jorun’s assessment, ‘volatile’ is likely the baseline state.”

  The first guard pulled the ornate door inward, revealing a room that immediately assaulted William’s senses. A war room. It wasn’t chaotic, precisely, but densely packed with the artefacts of conflict management. A massive, circular table of dark, scarred wood dominated the centre, completely buried beneath layers of maps, hastily scrawled reports secured by daggers or weighted inkwells, and wooden markers representing troop positions. More maps plastered the stone walls, regional surveys, detailed terrain layouts of mountain passes, coastal defences, crisscrossed with faded lines of past campaigns and newer, brighter lines of string denoting current deployments and suspected enemy movements. Racks along one wall held spare weapons and pieces of armour. The air was thick with the smell of old parchment, lamp oil, stale sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of anxiety. “Reminds me of the project crunch-time hubs back at Carlyle,” William mused, “just swap the whiteboards for maps, the energy drinks for… well, probably something stronger, and the existential dread is roughly comparable.”

  Three figures were present. Edward sat to the right of the table’s head, posture rigid, his usual grim expression deepened by fatigue and the gravity of the discussion. He glanced up as they entered, a flicker of acknowledgment, maybe relief, crossing his face before his attention snapped back to the speaker.

  Seated at the head, in a large, worn leather chair that seemed molded to his form, was undoubtedly Guildmaster Borin. He was older than William expected, perhaps in his late sixties, his face a complex map etched with wrinkles, old scars, and the profound weariness of command. A thick, neatly trimmed grey beard framed a square jaw. He wore a simple, functional leather jerkin over a dark tunic. Despite the simple attire, his presence filled the room. His eyes, deep-set beneath bushy brows, were tired, yes, but they held a sharp, unwavering intensity, currently fixed on the third man. Subject: Guildmaster Borin. Estimated Age: 65-70. Demeanour: High Authority, High Stress, High Competence. Initial Assessment: The seasoned CEO/General type. The Gandalf/Dumbledore archetype seems applicable. Definitely the Level Boss of this Guild.

  The third figure, the one currently speaking, stood opposite Borin, leaning over the table, a finger tracing a route on one of the maps. He was leanly built, whipcord muscle visible beneath a faded, travel-stained dark green tunic and worn leather breeches. A longbow and quiver bristled with fletched shafts rested against the back of his chair. A well-used hunting knife hung at his hip. Days of stubble shadowed a sharp jawline, and lines of sun, wind, and worry were etched around his eyes and mouth. But it was his eyes that drew William’s focus, piercingly sharp, restless, constantly scanning even as he spoke, the gaze of a hawk accustomed to spotting danger at a distance. He radiated a tense energy, a weariness that seemed bone-deep despite his alert posture. Subject: Unknown Ranger. Status: Delivering field report. Stress indicators: High. Reliability: Appears high based on Borin's focused attention.

  “Definitely not a good sign when the field agent delivering the critical update looks like he hasn’t slept in three days and just wrestled a bear,” William thought. “Smacks of the junior analyst having to present the disastrous market forecast because all the VPs are suddenly 'unavailable'.”

  Borin looked up as Julia and William entered, his intense gaze sweeping over them briefly. He gestured towards two empty chairs beside Edward with a minimal nod. “Julia. You made good time.” His voice was a low gravel, rough but clear. He glanced at William. “And this is William, I presume? The one you found?”

  “Yes, Guildmaster,” Julia replied respectfully, taking a seat. William quickly followed suit, feeling distinctly out of place in his non-standard attire amidst the seasoned warriors and strategists.

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  Borin nodded again, then gestured towards the ranger. “This is Goran,” he introduced them curtly, his attention already shifting back to the urgent matter at hand. “Lead scout for the Oakenfall region. He arrived an hour ago bearing… dire news.” The weight Borin put on the last two words sent a fresh chill through William.

  Goran acknowledged them with a curt, distracted nod, his focus immediately returning to Borin and the map. “As I was saying, Guildmaster,” he continued, his voice low and tight with urgency, “the activity has escalated beyond patrols. We confirmed goblin scouting parties three days ago, pushing further south than ever recorded.” He tapped a location on the map west of their current position. “Standard procedure, we thought. We engaged, eliminated two parties. But yesterday…” He took a shaky breath, rubbing a hand unconsciously across his stubbled jaw. “Yesterday, we sighted larger contingents. Ogres moving with the goblin packs. Troll handlers. And… confirmed undead shambling in their wake.”

  Enemy force composition escalating, William processed. Initial light infantry probes (goblins) followed by heavy support (ogres/trolls) and now core faction units (undead). Indicates transition from reconnaissance to staging for assault.

  Goran leaned closer, his voice dropping further, charged with dread. “And while observing their main staging camp near the Blackwater Flats… we saw him.” He hesitated, swallowing hard, the hand now resting on the hilt of his hunting knife. “Him. The Goblin King.”

  A sudden, heavy hush fell over the room. The air crackled with unspoken implications. William saw Edward’s knuckles whiten where his hand rested on the table. Julia drew a sharp, silent breath beside him. Even Borin’s intense gaze sharpened further, his eyes narrowing to slits. Data point: 'Goblin King'. Designation: Unknown, but reaction analysis indicates extremely high threat level. Inference: High-ranking commander within Dark Legion hierarchy. “Okay,” William thought grimly, “status update: Threat level just jumped from 'Concerning Localized Outbreaks' to 'Prepare for Impending Regional Catastrophe'. The efficiency is alarming.”

  Borin broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly, confirming William’s inference. “Virrerk the Vile,” he breathed, naming the Goblin King. “One of Neverus’s six named Lieutenants. Damn them all.” He slammed a scarred fist softly onto the table, not in anger, but with a heavy finality. “This confirms it, then. Our worst fears. Neverus isn't just testing the waters anymore. He’s deploying his commanders. This is the prelude.” He looked directly at Goran, his expression grim. “Oakenfall is the primary target?”

  Goran nodded miserably, tracing the route on the map. “All intelligence points that way, Guildmaster. The concentration of forces, the command presence… Oakenfall guards the pass to the Western Plains. If it falls…” He didn't need to finish.

  It was then that Julia leaned forward, Edward nodding in agreement beside her. “Guildmaster,” Julia said, her voice clear and steady despite the tension, “our own findings from Tallenwood corroborate this pattern of escalation. We encountered a goblin scouting party ourselves, unusually coordinated, operating far south, near Sharwood.”

  Edward picked up the thread. “They were well-equipped for scouts, but lightly armoured. Probing, not raiding. One escaped, likely reported back. Given Goran's news...” he looked across at the ranger, then back at Borin, “...we believe Sharwood is also a target. Perhaps secondary, perhaps a feint to draw forces east while the main blow falls on Oakenfall. But it is a target.” Hypothesis: Coordinated multi-front offensive. Primary Objective: Oakenfall (confirmed by command unit deployment). Secondary Objective: Sharwood (confirmed by synchronized scouting activity). Strategic Intent: Breach western defenses, potentially using Sharwood attack as diversion/pinning force.

  Borin listened intently, his gaze shifting between Goran, Julia, and Edward, his fingers stroking his grey beard thoughtfully. William could almost see the complex strategic calculations running behind the old warrior’s tired eyes, assessing probabilities, allocating scarce resources, weighing unacceptable risks. “Wonder if he uses Bayesian inference or just goes with optimized heuristics developed over decades of conflict simulation?” William mused silently. “Probably the latter. Less computationally intensive.”

  “Your reports align,” Borin said finally, his voice heavy with the burden of command. He pushed back slightly from the table, his gaze sweeping over the maps covering the walls. “Other whispers, fragmented intelligence from the borderlands… it all points to the same conclusion. Neverus is making his move. A major offensive, likely aimed at breaking our western defences definitively and striking for the heartland.” He let out a long, weary sigh, the sound filling the suddenly quiet room. The weight of a kingdom bracing for impact seemed to settle onto his broad, aging shoulders. He looked around the table, his gaze lingering on each of them. The responsibility was immense. Aver needed saving, and the task, it seemed, began here.