Elian groaned, his eyelids fluttering. The world was a blurry mix of canvas, shadows, and the overwhelming scent of blood, mud, and cedar.
"Do not move," a voice rumbled.
Elian blinked his vision into focus.
He was lying on the war table in the center of the command tent. The maps had been shoved unceremoniously to the floor to make room for him. He was wrapped tightly in the Warlord's Mantle.
Standing over him, looking like the physical embodiment of a thunderstorm, was Cassian.
The Prince's dark steel armor was deeply gouged and stained with the grim reality of the front lines. A shallow cut across his cheekbone was sluggishly bleeding, but his ice-blue eyes were fixed on Elian, burning with a frantic intensity.
"Sire," Elian rasped, his throat bone-dry. "Did we hold the secondary trench?"
"We held it," Cassian said, his jaw tight. "Barely. But that is not the matter at hand."
