The tent they walked to was pitched at the far edge of the command cluster, set apart from the war tables and the runners by a stretch of trampled ground. The canvas was plain, the Warrior King's standard stitched once at the entrance and nowhere else.
That was when the siege reached her ears.
Distant and layered, the sound carried the way battle-noise always carried across open country: the dull thunder of trebuchets, the much louder cannon shots, and the sharp crack of dwarven machines answering in kind. Somewhere between the lines, elven bows loosed volleys from behind carved embankments while Vraven infantry closed the distance at the cost of their own.
Felicity slowed once on the threshold. Her ear tilted toward the sound and her gaze tracked it for a breath before the canvas fell closed behind her.
Then it was only the two of them.
Alexios lowered himself onto the camp stool at the head of the field table and his armor settled with him. He gestured to the seat across.
