The war tent was the size of a small hall, its frame of ironwood poles covered by taut canvas painted with the crest of the united banners: a golden sun eclipsed by a silver sword. The emblem hung over the center table, embroidered on a cloth heavy with dust and smoke.
Inside, the air was thick with heat. Torches burned along the walls despite the early hour, their flames guttering against the wind that leaked through the seams of the canvas. A dozen men and women sat or stood around the table, each marked by the weight of command.
At the head sat Lord-General Veynar, his steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe knot. His armor bore no ornament, only scars of battles long past. His gaze swept across the assembled leaders like a blade.
To his right leaned Archmage Celinar, wrapped in azure robes heavy with embroidery. His long fingers traced the rim of a goblet, though he hadn't taken a sip. His pale eyes flickered with impatience.
