The tent was packed again.
Not with soldiers, but with maps, old voices, and stale arguments. It smelled like dust, cold steel, and something sharp beneath it all, fear.
Lindarion stood near the center, arms crossed, head tilted slightly toward the map sprawled across the long oak table. The warleaders surrounded it in half-formed circles. Some sat. Most stood. None spoke with ease.
He didn't know most of their names yet. Only faces. Posture. Tone.
That was enough.
"—if we send the fourth and seventh battalions north, we'll cut ourselves off from the Vale," one of them said, voice low and sharp. "We lose supply lines, we lose the back door."
"We've already lost the back door," another replied. "You just didn't notice."
"No one's going north," Lindarion said.
The voices dropped.
A few turned toward him. Not all with agreement.
He didn't care.
