Maelstrom cleared his throat, letting the wind he seemed to command gently ruffle the corner of the maps on the table. His eyes swept across the gathered leaders, lingering on none in particular, before his voice, calm, low, and faintly distorted by wind magic, rolled into the pavilion.
"The Western Front was hell. From the very moment we crossed into their territory, the ground felt wrong. The air was stale. The border was oozing with rot, as if the very earth itself had been soaked in necromantic residue. We expected resistance. We didn't expect that the Covenant of Eternity had stationed so many of their necromancers on that front."
He let that sit for a second, then continued.
