The tent was stifling with tension, the lanternlight flickering softly against maps stained with blood and ash. A sprawling war table sat at the center, weighed down by brass tokens and scattered parchments.
Claude sat at the head, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting against the back of his fingers as his generals argued.
Samson stood like an iron wall beside him, arms folded, his blunt voice slicing through the air. "Hyparia will reinforce their border before week's end. If we don't move now, we'll be pinned between the Saintess' march and the Crown's eastern dukes."
Beside him, General Vale—young, quick-tongued, always three steps ahead in numbers—shuffled tokens across the map.
"Duke Veltair's town sits right along the southern trade artery. If we seize it, we'll have supplies, height, and the port. The only problem is the Magus Tower stationed inside. Forty spellcasters at minimum."
