It is time, Valen thought, eyes narrowing as they followed the slope downward into the grey-brown basin of the valley below.
The wind carried with it the faint scent of earth, pine, and something far more bitter: distant smoke, and with it, the creeping promise of battle.
Behind him, two scouts stood silent, waiting for the dismissal they hadn't yet received. One shifted his weight, the leather of his boot brushing dry grass, but neither dared speak again. They had delivered the report, the enemy was on the march, only a few hours out, and now they waited, patient as shadows, for permission to vanish back into their watch posts.
But Valen wasn't aware of them. Not yet. His mind had drifted, not with aimlessness, but reassessing every angle and element of the plan he had labored to craft.
His eyes traced the lines of the field below, lingering over each contour of the defenses like a painter reviewing his canvas.
