Lucas stopped three feet away. "Then talk."
Ryker's gaze flicked to Clara. "In private."
Clara opened her mouth.
"No," Lucas said. He didn't take his eyes off his brother. "If you came to drag her into this again, you wasted the ride."
Ryker laughed once, soft and sharp. "Everything always comes back to her."
The soldiers were still. The wind itself seemed to pause.
Lucas moved aside, just enough to let Ryker pass. "My tent."
Clara's hand brushed Lucas's as Ryker strode past. It was a silent warning.
Don't.
But Lucas only whispered, "I have to."
Inside the tent, the air was thick with heat from the coals burning in the brazier. Maps littered the war table, marked with red ink and steel pins. Ryker poured himself a drink from Lucas's reserve something dark and bitter.
Lucas folded his arms.
Ryker drank, then said, "You can't win this war the way you're playing it."
"It isn't a game."
"That's your first mistake."
