The battle was wrong.
Thorne knew it long before anyone said a word.
The enemy had been loud before his arrival, demanding, aggressive, eager to provoke a confrontation. And yet, the moment he stepped onto the field, everything shifted. They stalled. Delayed. Sent word after word, each more pointless than the last, as though buying time for something else entirely.
It was a tactic he had seen before.
A distraction.
He stood inside the war tent, his eyes fixed on the spread map before him, but his mind was nowhere near it. An unease crawled beneath his skin, refusing to be ignored. His jaw tightened as he scanned the markings again, his fingers pressing harder against the table with each passing second.
Something was off.
Very off.
Footsteps approached behind him, and he didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"We've sent word to their side. We should get a response soon, your majesty," the head guard said, stepping in.
