Rhian sat stiffly at the long oak table, her fingers drumming nervously against the rim of her cup.
The war maps sprawled across the surface were smeared with ink and wine, half-finished strategies bleeding into each other.
Outside, the night howled with restless wolves, their growls carrying across the wind like a warning.
Alia was lounging on the other side, swirling her glass of dark liquor lazily. Her gaze never wavered from the fire crackling in the hearth.
"This is going too far," Rhian said at last.
Alia's eyes flicked toward her. "Too far? My dear, we are finally where we need to be. Rick's enemies are cornered. Emerald's little band of misfits is starving. Their people are crying for surrender. That's not 'too far.' That's victory."
Rhian pressed her lips together. "And at what cost?"
Alia's brow arched. "Cost is irrelevant. Wars are not won by keeping your hands clean, Rhia. Surely you know that."
