The war tent smelled like wet canvas, ink, and fear pretending to be discipline.
The lanterns were turned down low. Not because they wanted romance. Because light made shadows sharp, and sharp shadows made people look like enemies.
Outside, the valley moved without screaming. Streams of families. Small knots of carts. Guards rotating like clock hands, but never stopping in one place too long.
Inside, the quiet rules held.
No crowds.
No speeches.
No hero moves.
The captive Walker sat on Lira's soil-salt-charcoal tray like a prayer that refused to end. Bone shards strapped under their chest cloth still gave off that ember warmth. Not exploding. Not sleeping. Just… patient.
Rhaen sat on a stool with her ribs bound. She looked pale under the lantern's weak light. The Sea-Glass operative stood behind her, slate ready, eyes flat and watchful.
Cerys was not in the tent. That alone made the air feel wrong.
