Rowan's POV
The canvas walls of the tent reeked of death and sweat, a lingering reminder of the carnage that had painted these fields red only hours before. Rowan sat rigid in his chair, every muscle coiled tight as the brazier's flames cast dancing shadows across the cramped space. The air hung thick with smoke and something else, something sweet that made his stomach turn.
Allen lounged across from him like a predator at rest, his armor carelessly unfastened, revealing a tunic so stained with blood and grime it looked like he'd worn it through hell itself. His hands moved with practiced ease as he poured steaming liquid into delicate white cups, the porcelain looking absurdly fragile in this den of violence.
