He could not understand what was happening.
They knew the plan. They knew. Every commander, every warband chief had been drilled on it like scripture. The centre held. The flanks resisted.
They waited for the enemy's fury to burn itself out, and then the hammer would fall, the centre would fall back deep behind the lines , hidden troops would spring out and encircle the enemy centre and once broken they would outflank the rest of the enemy.
So why?
Why in all the hells was the left pursuing?
Had they forgotten? Had they gone mad? Or worse, had that fool Varaku entrusted the flank to one of those hot-blooded chieftain desperate to carve a name in stone with the blood of his own men?
Valen's heart hammered in his chest. The whole battle hinged on timing, on coordination. The left had not just disobeyed, they had fractured the spine of the entire formation. The momentum was broken, the shape unraveling. His carefully built trap had been torn open like a gutted deer.
