The tent of Count Martissant smelled of waxed leather, ink, and a persistent hint of dampness. It was a vast space, furnished with a massive table covered in maps, a military camp bed, and a brazier that crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the canvas walls. The man himself, seated behind the table, his hands clasped over the parchments, observed them with the air of a chess player assessing a lost position.
Dylan, Elisa, Julius, and Zirel stood before him in a line. A fine layer of dust and fatigue covered them all, but their posture was rigid, military. The smell of combat, acrid and metallic, seemed to still cling to their clothes.
"So," Martissant began in a neutral, worn-out voice. "Maggie is alive. That's the only good news from last night, I imagine."
It was Julius who spoke, his bass voice resonating in the confined space. "Yes. She's wounded, in shock, but stable. She's under the care of the healers."
