Elsbeth.
The morning after the tunnel inspection, the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the iron tang of old stone. I could still feel it in my lungs as I made my way through the lower hallways of the packhouse—the kind of scent that clung to memory long after you left it behind.
Fen walked beside me, silent but present, his stride matching mine as we crossed into the war chamber beneath the 1st House's council wing. The room was built for strategy, not comfort—stone walls carved with wolf motifs, a wide central table covered in maps and marked tokens. Lanterns flickered in the sconces, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls.
Elder StormClaw stood near the table, sleeves rolled again, fingers drumming against a map weighed down with iron markers. Several of his scouts and engineers flanked him, hunched over plans and piping diagrams.
He looked up as we entered. "Your Majesty."
"Report," I said without preamble.
