The fire hadn't reached us yet, but the scent of it had.
It threaded through the camp like an invisible rope—smoke, ash, and something sharper underneath. Burned grain. Charred dirt. And fear. The kind of fear that spreads quietly, carried not by flame but by conversation.
By the time I stepped into the command pavilion, the war table was already surrounded.
Half the nobles hadn't even been summoned, but they came anyway. Cowards were always drawn to warmth when it comes from burning someone else's roof.
The tent was warm with the rising tension. Wax dripped from the corner candles onto the lacquered floor. Scrolls littered the corners of the strategy map, half-rolled and unread. I let them all settle before I spoke.
The Empress stood at my right, robed in heavy white with bright red embroidery and as calm as ever. Mingyu sat opposite her, hunched slightly, a scroll in his hand. His mouth was tight. Jaw clenched. He hadn't spoken a word since I walked in.
