A King's Wrath, A Commander's Rebellion
"If you arrive in such a hurry," Gary told them, his tone black, laced with metal, "then something has gone wrong—again.
The words pierced the thick quiet of the war tent. Smoke from the brazier curled in the stagnant air, bearing the acrid smell of burning herbs intended to cover the smell of blood and bandages. Wounded commanders slumped over cushions all around them, their armor removed, their bodies wrapped in cloth that bled. Their faces were pale, their eyes hollow, and yet even they raised their heads, awaiting.
Veynor's eyes flashed around the room, racing over each battered soldier, each bent figure, every shadow that seemed to edge closer to hear. His throat pulsed as he pushed his voice out, shaking but insistent.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The beasts were only the beginning…
