The tension in the tent had become palpable, a rope stretched to snapping point. Tonar's words, heavy with blunt realism, seemed to have drained the air of any easy hope. The gaunt-faced chief and the older woman lowered their eyes—not out of submission, but because the weight of the truth was too much to bear.
It was Zirel who first broke the taut silence. He stepped toward the map, his long, thin shadow dancing across the parchment.
"Hold fast, yes. But not by sitting still like targets." His voice was a rasping murmur, worn thin by sleepless watches. "Pilaf has set a trap. They expect us to panic, to split our forces searching for the missing or to run to Martissant."
He placed a finger on the marshy area to the south, where Tonar had drawn his line.
"They think us cornered, wounded, therefore predictable. Let's use that."
Tonar did not move, but his eyes—embers in the dark—fixed on Zirel with renewed intensity. He awaited the rest.
