Lindarion didn't recognize him.
But he was watching.
Quiet.
Measured.
Jaren gestured toward him. "That's Commander Corin. He runs the Eastern Vanguard. He doesn't talk much."
Corin offered a single nod. Not friendly. Just fact.
Lindarion stepped forward slowly, eyes sweeping the table again. Maps. Charts. Messy sketches of twisted creatures and crude drawings of cavern networks. Nothing showing Solrendel. Nothing about his mother. His home.
"You all think this is manageable," he said quietly. "It's not. This isn't a war we win with a well-timed flank."
Taron gave a sharp grin. "Didn't say we'd win it with a flank. Said we'd win it with patience."
"They're already winning," Lindarion snapped. "They're ten steps ahead. Every city burned, every gate cracked—that's planned. Coordinated. And you want patience?"
Jaren stepped closer to the table. "What do you want, Lindarion? To teleport to Solrendel and charge in alone?"
"If that's what it takes."
"That's suicidal."
