Faye's POV
The war tent felt suffocating despite the gentle flicker of oil lamps casting dancing shadows on canvas walls. Outside, the muffled sounds of soldiers moving through camp barely penetrated the thick silence that had settled between us like a heavy shroud.
The quiet wasn't restful. It was the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, thick with unspoken tension and barely contained storm clouds.
Hardy had remained perfectly still since the messenger arrived with news from the northern front. A single piece of parchment pulled from the corpse of an enemy scout, throat cut with surgical precision, no defensive wounds visible. He'd scanned the message without a flicker of emotion crossing his features. Then he'd dismissed Allen with nothing more than a sharp gesture toward the tent flap.
