The storm worsened by nightfall.
Snow hammered violently against the cliffs while freezing wind screamed through the mountain passes hard enough to shake loose ice from the higher ridges. The camp below had become organized chaos—fighters carrying supply crates through the snow, civilians gathering blankets and food under Mara's supervision, exhausted guards rushing between shelters with lanterns burning weakly against the storm.
And at the center of it all—
Asarmose stood over the command table with shadows beneath his eyes and Cassian's letter spread open before him once more.
The lantern beside him flickered softly as he reread the silver ink for what felt like the hundredth time.
Every word felt calculated.
Every sentence precise.
Every threat intentional.
But something bothered him now.
Something he couldn't stop circling back toward no matter how many tactical possibilities he considered.
