The grand hall of the manor pulsed with a somber tension. Light, filtered through stained glass, cast a mosaic of colors across the polished marble floor, illuminating the gathering of men and women dressed in the finest silks and furs of Lazica. At the head of a long, ornately carved table sat the young king, his brow furrowed in a perpetual frown.
"My lord," began the head of the spies, a seasoned veteran with a weathered face and sharp eyes, "we have confirmed the barbarian migration. They have settled into the plains, establishing themselves in the settlements they captured."
He paused, waiting for the king's response. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken anxieties.
The king finally spoke, his voice laced with a weariness that belied his youth. "And their intentions?"
"They appear to be consolidating their gains, my lord. They are preparing to defend their holdings, ready for any potential conflict."