The Ghost Who Shouldn't Exist
The man struggled to remain standing, his breath ragged, eyes sunken deep into a face carved by exhaustion and fear. Mud clung to his armor like dried blood, and the faint stench of death followed him into the tent.
"My… liege," he rasped, each word scraping out like gravel. "The flank… it's gone. We held as long as we could, but they—"
King Garay's voice sliced through the air before he could finish.
"Why are you here, commander of the Fourth Division?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. The fire crackled in the corner, the sound sharp as breaking bones. Even the wind seemed to die at the edge of the tent.
The commander froze, his lips parting—then closing again. He swallowed hard. His throat worked, but no words came out.
Garay didn't move. He sat still in the glow of the lantern, his expression unreadable, eyes dark and gleaming beneath heavy brows. Yet the quiet rage inside him pulsed like heat under armor.
