"The scouts have returned."Egil's voice cut through the flap of the command tent like the first cold wind of autumn. "The Herculean host has kept their pace,still retreating east. Seems your little gamble paid off after all."
There was no triumph in his tone. No celebration, no hint of the thunderous satisfaction that should have come with such news. He delivered it like one might read a weather report: dry, measured, almost resentful.
Alpheo looked up from his maps, eyes narrowing as he studied his companion. Egil stood there, arms folded loosely, one hip cocked to the side with his usual lazy slouch. But behind the casual stance was something far less idle. Boredom. Frustration. A restless predator denied its kill.
He wanted that battle.That was the first thought that crossed Alpheo's mind as he observed the man's furrowed brow and languid posture. He wanted the blood. The break. The chaos.
And who could blame him? Egil was not a man made for stillness.
