[Rolph Dragonair's Tent]
The main command tent of Sir Rolph Dragonair was quieter than the training grounds outside, but it carried its own kind of weight — the air thick with the mingled scents of parchment, oiled steel, and faint smoke from the brazier in the corner. Flickering candlelight spilled over the vast map spread across the war table, shadows dancing along the canvas walls. Outside, the distant clamor of drills and shouted orders bled faintly through the thick fabric, a reminder of the war machine that churned just beyond.
Mr. Banner pushed past the heavy flap, his boots sinking slightly into the thick rug beneath. He stopped a few paces from the table and bowed, his posture sharp with military precision.
"I have placed them where you said, Sir," he reported, his voice low and respectful.
Rolph looked up from the map, his golden eyes calm yet alert, as if measuring the weight of every word. He gave a slow, approving nod.
"Good job."
