There was pleading wrapped in that command, or perhaps it was authority; Alaric's voice carried both. He turned then, briefly, toward Alistair and begged—softened, entreating—"Calm yourself. Your temper will be our undoing. Wait."
He looked at Sebathine then, long and searching but said nothing. The look was an inquiry and an appeal folded in one: "are you with me"? Sebathine met the gaze and returned nothing but the flat surface of his expression. It was an answer of its own, and Alaric accepted it. Without another word he turned and left the tent, leaving his brothers and Sebathine behind.
The moment the flap settled shut a different sound replaced Alaric's exit: Alistair shoved the table with a force that made the goblets tremble and slid, clinking, across the wood. The small, neat map at the center wrinkled and lifted as he lunged around the furniture like a caged thing finally loose.
