Lindarion didn't respond.
Didn't move.
The flap lifted again, just a ripple this time, but it wasn't one of the generals. Just another runner. A messenger. Younger than him, maybe, though the lines around the boy's eyes said he'd seen too much in too little time. The satchel at his hip looked too heavy for how fast he was moving.
He tried to walk past.
Lindarion stepped into his path.
"Where's that going?" he asked, voice quiet.
The runner stiffened. "It's for Commander Jaren."
"What is it?"
"I'm not allowed to say."
Ashwing clicked his claws together. "Oof."
Lindarion didn't blink. "Let me see it."
"I—I can't. Sorry, sir. Strict orders."
Lindarion tilted his head slightly.
No malice.
Just… intent.
"Who gave you the order?"
"Colonel Varic."
"So not a king," Lindarion said, and before the boy could back up or protest, Lindarion's hand shot forward.
He didn't snatch. He didn't shove.
He just took.
