The air inside the command tent was thick—oppressive not with heat, but with tension so dense it seemed to choke the very breath from a man's lungs.
It was not unlike a blacksmith's forge, not in warmth but in meaning. For what was being shaped here was not steel for battle, but the end of a campaign that had never truly begun.
Prince Lechlian stood frozen, his knuckles white as he breathed in sharp, shallow bursts as if air itself had betrayed him.
"That's… that's impossible," he hissed, but even as the words left his mouth, they sounded more like a plea than a denial. His eyes darted toward the two scouts standing at the edge of the tent, their cloaks still damp with morning dew, their expressions grim and cautious. "How could the city fall in barely a month? You lie!"
His voice cracked as he stepped forward, not with regal authority, but desperation. His whole frame trembled—not with anger, but with disbelief that sought refuge in rage.
