"Lord Evocatore," she began, voice striving for crisp formality but wobbling as his elbow grazed hers. "First garrison report."
He angled himself to read over her shoulder. Ink splotches betrayed late-night drafting. "Soldiers: discipline stable," he recited, nodding at the neatly written lines. "Mercenaries: integrating—what does culinary disputes mean?"
She coughed, fluster widening her eyes behind spectacles. "Yesterday's lunch service devolved into a shouting match over pepper versus juniper. A saucepan was wielded as a shield. No casualties—except one beet stew."
He bit the inside of his cheek, smothering a chuckle. "Noted. And the tribes?"
"Mischief trending upward." She flipped the scroll, revealing stick-figure diagrams she'd drawn of recent incidents. "This is a depiction of them herding geese through the mess hall at dawn. Morale improved but cleanliness plummeted."
