There was a strange heaviness in the air, one that none of them could quite name.
For all the campaigns these men had fought, the question was usually how to bring the enemy to battle or how to force him into one on their own terms.
Now, for the first time, they found themselves on the other side of the equation, facing the prospect of walking straight into whatever plan the enemy had laid for them.
"I doubt I'm the only one who thinks the Oizenian sent this letter because he is confident of victory," Lord Xanthios said, the plates of his armor clinking as he reached to take the parchment from Jarza's hands for another look. He scanned it briefly before continuing, his voice carrying over the table. "If we march, we surrender the choice of battlefield. We fight where he wants, not where we are strongest. Must we truly oblige him?"
He let his gaze sweep across the gathered men, as though daring someone to deny the sense in his words.
