The makeshift tent breathed urgency and fatigue. It wasn't built to shield from cold or rain, but to isolate this fragile fragment of strategy from the surrounding chaos. At its center, a massive tree served as a pillar; its gnarled trunk bore the map pinned roughly against it, the bark's fibers still visible behind the ink and charcoal marks. Around it, the taut canvas formed an alcove, saturated with the smell of wet leather, rusty metal, and sweat.
Élisa had slipped inside, silent, almost invisible. She wasn't supposed to attend this council, but Maggie was still resting, and Élisa needed to understand what would come next, needed to see with her own eyes where this forced march was leading.
