Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 962: War Room

The polished oak doors creaked open as servants stepped out, leaving only the most trusted within.

At the center of the chamber stood a massive strategy table. A handcrafted replica of the surrounding territories stretched across it, complete with moving mana-projected units representing armies, fortifications, and supply lines. Markers illuminated red for the Consortium, blue for Greenvale’s forces, and gray for neutral or destabilized regions.

The room’s atmosphere was surprisingly pleasant for a war council. Not boisterous, but confident. Relaxed. The kind of energy born from steady, unquestionable progress.

Duke Alastair Greenvale leaned forward over the table, fingertips pressed together, eyes sharp like a hawk surveying the board. His jade cloak, embroidered with the house sigila silver stag under a crescent moonflowed elegantly behind him.

”Reports from the eastern front,” one commander began, reading from a floating mana scroll. ”The 4th Battalion has pushed the Consortium’s siege lines back another three miles. No major losses on our side.”

A younger officer grinned. ”It’s the same across the entire southern ridge. They’re bleeding... slowly but surely.”

A third, older general chuckled, stroking his beard. ”Heh... serves them right. My sources were correct. The Consortium made a grave miscalculation.”

The man stepped forward and tapped the miniature section of the board that represented the far southeastern beastkin territories.

”They diverted a full thirty-thousand-strong high-tier army to secure alliances there before this conflict began. Thought they could get the beastkin into helping flank us from the border.”

He paused just as a smug smirk emerged on his lips.

”But... thanks to the foxkin betrayaland more importantly...” He flicked his fingers, causing a different sigil to pulse on the map. ”...thanks to the Covenant of Eternity pulling the rug from under them... their little expedition turned into a disaster.”

Another commander nodded in agreement. ”Hah! Glorious. They walked into a den of wolves thinking it was a tea party.” .

”Indeed.” the informant continued. ”The Consortium forces got chewed up. Not annihilated, but crippled. Their elites suffered heavy casualties. And the best part?” His grin widened. ”The beastkin took massive losses, too. Enough that they won’t be able to properly honor whatever deal they shook hands on.”

A ripple of dark chuckles circled the room.

Duke Alastair smiled, a slow, sharp curve of his lips that held no warmth. ”A perfect storm of miscalculation.”

He leaned back. ”No wonder they were trying to repair relations with us after this debacle. Thank the Goddess I didn’t agree to it.”

”The result,” one general added, ”is that the entire pincer maneuver we feared... collapsed. Our borders remain secure. No beastkin invasion has occurred.”

”Which means...” Another officer tapped the table, causing the blue markers of Greenvale’s forces to shimmer. ”We press. Slow and steady. Let them wither. Every field burned. Every supply line cut.”

”Death by a thousand cuts,” someone murmured approvingly.

Alastair’s gaze glinted. ”Indeed. And while they bleed... we prepare for the next phase.”

”Shall I send word to accelerate the northwestern push?” a commander asked.

”Do it,” Alastair replied with a decisive nod. ”and triple the supply wagons to the western front. We’ve secured enough ground to warrant it.”

As the generals murmured in agreement, the duke chuckled under his breath.

”Truly... those Consortium fools handed us this opportunity my ancestors have been waiting for ever since the establishment of our family line. They handed it to me on a silver platter. And I...”

He traced a finger across the glowing red lines of the enemy retreat.

”...have every intention of capitalizing on it.”

A knock echoed against the thick oak doors.

”Your Grace,” a servant called from beyond. ”Lady Amara and Lady Vivienne request entry.”

Alastair’s brows furrowed. ”They should know very well that they’re not authorized to be in here during wartime councils...” he muttered, instinctively glancing toward his commanders, who exchanged knowing looks but wisely stayed silent. 𝘳𝓪ɴo͍ВÈS

Before he could refuse, a softer voice piped through the door. It was small and fragile.

”...Father... I... I had the nightmares again...” Vivienne’s voice trembled, the kind of vulnerable quiver only a daughter could wield against a battle-hardened duke.

The steel in his spine melted.

Alastair’s anger levels rose instantly. ”Damned Consortium bastards... Even after months since their attempted kidnapping, my princesses still struggle to sleep well.”

”Let them in. Now.”

The grand doors swung open.

Amara stepped in first, and behind her shuffled Vivienne. Her hands tugged nervously at the fabric of her night robe as if it were a safety blanket. Her eyes were still a bit puffy, as if indeed she’d been crying not long ago.

”Come, come.” Alastair gestured immediately, his gruffness evaporating. ”Vivienne, to my side. Amara, sit. I don’t care if it’s not proper protocol.”

Vivienne scurried forward without hesitation, practically throwing herself into her father’s side. His gloved hand immediately came up to pat her head, fingers threading gently through her hair.

”There, there... no nightmares will reach you here, little star,” he murmured.

Vivienne nodded into his shoulder, mumbling something incoherent but clearly grateful.

Amara took a seat with far more dignity, giving her father a knowing look. ”You spoil her far too much, Father.”

”Hmph. She’s my youngest. It’s my right.”

Before Amara could say that they were twins, one grave general spoke up. .

”Not by wartime doctrine, it’s not.”

”Then let the doctrine write me a formal complaint,” Alastair retorted, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. ”My daughters go where they please.”

He glanced down at Vivienne, who had finally calmed, and then over to Amara, who was already scanning the strategy board with a sharp, studious gaze.

”...But if you two are here... you might as well learn how wars are truly won.”

The mood in the room shifted. The warmth of a father’s embrace remained, but now, alongside it, was the flicker of legacy.

Because the Greenvale bloodline did not raise weaklings.

Alastair gave Vivienne’s hair one final affectionate ruffle before straightening his back. His sharp gaze swept over the assembled commanders. ”Since my daughters are here I expect you to explain our current strategic position thoroughly. Treat this not only as a council meeting but as a lesson. I want them to see firsthand how wars are managed by professionals.”

His generals exchanged glances. One or two chuckled under their breath, but no one dared disobey. The duke’s word was law in this room.

”Of course, Your Grace.” The eldest of the group, General Reinhardt, stepped forward. A grizzled man in his sixties with a slate-gray beard and armor polished to a mirror sheen. He gestured to the enormous wooden map table in the room’s center.

The two princesses stepped forward, standing opposite the generals with perfect posture. To the commanders, it seemed like the duke’s daughters were here to learn the art of war.

But beneath their polished smiles... beneath the silk gowns, the delicate jewelry, and the image of dignified princesses... lay an unbreakable mark.

A crimson-black sigil, burned into their very souls.

The seal of the Primordial Subjugator.

A brand that could not be erased. Could not be resisted. A binding far more absolute than mere chains cast by ordinary slavers.

’Repeat my questions precisely.’ His voice echoed within Amara’s mind. Smooth. Cold. Commanding. Each word was laced with that sovereign gravity that tolerated no disobedience.