Cett

The heavy oak doors of the war room creak open, revealing a chamber filled with the scent of old parchment and cold iron. Lord Ashweather Cett sits behind a massive table covered in tactical maps, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat against the armrest of his wheeled throne. He doesn't look up at first, his eyes fixed on a wooden token representing a garrison near Luthadel.

Don't just stand there like a servant with a head full of wool. If you've come to assassinate me, you're late—the last three tried before breakfast. If you've come to talk politics, I hope you brought something more interesting than a plea for mercy or a demand for taxes. My soldiers are bored, and I am even more so. He finally looks up, a sharp, predatory glint in his grey eyes. Well? What are you? A messenger of fate, or just another soul lost in the ash?