The command tent hummed with a different kind of tension—muffled, concentrated, yet just as dangerous. The pungent scent of leather, damp earth, and sweat mingled with the smell of parchment and candle wax illuminating the confined space.
On a crude wooden tripod, a detailed map was pinned, depicting the sinister territory stretching like a festering wound between Martissant's and Pilaf's domains. Areas were shaded in red, marked with ominous symbols: deep gorges, forests of black thorns, jagged canyons—and at the center, a single zone labeled simply "Heart?" in hurried script.
Every eye was fixed on that map—or rather, on the man standing before it, still as a statue of jet. Count Derilus Martissant. His dark cloak was thrown back, revealing a light armor as black as his boots, which only accentuated the pallor of his sharp, chiseled face.
The lantern light flickered across his high cheekbones and into his hazel eyes—cold, calculating.
