"Fine," she said. "Watch. I've done dumber shows for worse crowds."
She kept walking.
Far away, another mind followed the same images, but from the other side.
The main command tent of Silvarion's forward camp smelled faintly of ink, leather, and cooled tea.
Lamp-light pooled over the war table, picking out the edges of maps and the scrawl of hastily added notes.
Above the table floated a projection pane—a flat sheet of pale light, its surface rippling with the picture sent up from the depths of Ashen River.
Tonight, it showed a slow, shifting view of crystal trunks and glowing moss.
Mikhailis sat in a chair that someone had finally convinced him to use instead of perching on the table.
His posture was relaxed at first glance—one arm draped over the back of the chair, one leg folded over the other—but the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed how long he'd been holding the projection.
