Alastair.
The wind off the northern ridge still clung to me, a bitter taste of frost that lingered even after days in the saddle. My leathers were dusted with road and blood, and the stench of old battlefields clung to the seams no matter how many times I rinsed them in river water. I was tired, but the kind of tired that settles deep in the bones and sharpens the mind instead of dulling it. War has a way of sobering a man.
The war room was already lit when I entered—its central table scattered with maps, markers, and rolls of half-drawn fortifications. Elsbeth stood over the northern territories, her crimson hair tied back, violet eyes scanning every inch like she could will the terrain into submission.
She looked up when I came in. That sharp gaze flicked over me, noting the state of my boots, the cut on my cheek, the way my shoulders sat lower than usual. She didn't ask how I was. Didn't need to.
"You're late," she said instead.
