Morning in Delwig came slowly, like a half-hearted promise. The light through the barracks windows was thin and pale, struggling to break through the lingering mist.
Damien stirred to the low sound of boots against the stone hallway outside — a runner, stopping at his door.
"Sir Damien," the guard called. "General Ivaan requests your presence. Immediately."
Damien groaned softly, sitting up, his head still thick from the drink he'd had with Apnoch the previous night. "Now?" he muttered.
"Now, sir."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Tell the general I'll be there."
The man saluted and left. Damien dressed quickly — black vest, dark coat, his usual attire that made him look more like a mercenary than a stationed soldier — and stepped out into the early morning chill.
By the time he reached the General's quarters, the entire command wing was already awake.
