Vincent.
The heavy canvas flap of the main war tent snapped violently as a wounded scout stumbled inside, dripping dark mud and fresh blood onto the fur carpets.
I didn't move from my seat at the head of the oak war table. I simply kept my fingers wrapped around the silver goblet in my hand, staring down at the sprawling map of the valley pass.
"My Prince..." the scout choked out, dropping heavily to one knee, his chest heaving under his dented leather armor. "General Alaric... he's back. He barely made it up the ridge."
I took a slow, deliberate sip from my goblet before setting it down with a quiet, hollow click against the wood. "Send him in."
A second later, two guards dragged Alaric into the tent. His silver cloak was shredded, his face bruised and covered in dried river mud. His broadsword was gone, and his right shoulder hung at an awkward, broken angle.
I looked at him, my expression unreadable. "You look like hell, Alaric." I blurted out.
