Belanor lounged on the Great Chief's throne like he owned the wood itself, one leg hooked over the armrest, that permanent, bored grin carved across his face. The hall smelled of ale and iron and the faint, sour tang of old blood. Torches guttered along the walls, throwing long, hungry shadows that seemed to bow to him as they passed.
Rikon bowed, eyes flicking everywhere but the human's face. He kept one hand on the pommel of his knife as if it might steady him. "The preparations are almost ready, Great Chief," he reported, voice thin. "I've recalled all patrols. The hunters are back in the ring. The war bands are sharpening blades as we speak."
"Good," Belanor purred, not moving his chin. "Very good. Bring me the banners."
