The air in the command tent was stifling, thick with the scent of dried parchment, old iron, and the mounting frustration of Commander Varros. He stood behind a heavy oak table, his fist resting on a map of the borderlands, his knuckles white.
"It is a fool's errand, Your Highness," Varros said, his voice a low rumble of restrained insubordination. "The Ashveil is not a place for a stroll. We have reports of scouts losing their minds in those mists, of horses refusing to move, of shadows that don't belong to any living thing. To go there with only two guards? It is beyond reckless. It is an invitation to a tragedy I will have to explain to the capital."
Caelum did not look up from the small dagger he was using to trim a stray thread on his sleeve. Beside him, Lena remained perfectly still, her hands clasped behind her back. She could feel the heat radiating off the Commander, a desperate sort of anger born from a duty he couldn't fulfill.
