The camp was silent. Only the faint rustling of the snow-laden canvas could be heard outside Noah's tent. The wind had quieted for the first time that night, leaving behind an uneasy stillness that felt almost sacred — or perhaps foreboding.
Noah sat alone at the wooden table in the corner of his tent, the dim lamplight flickering against the scattered reports and maps before him. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, the fatigue of recent days heavy in the way his fingers barely lifted to unseal the wax on the letter that had just arrived.
The seal bore the emblem of the Church of St. Eldred — a silver cross framed by wings. He stared at it for a long time, unmoving, the faint scent of wax and parchment filling the tent.
Then he broke the seal.
The handwriting was familiar — neat, steady, and deliberate. Maya.
> To General Noah Ashen,
