Campfire smoke curled against the cold dawn air, carrying with it the bitter tang of charred wood, the fatty sweetness of spitted meat, and the earth-heavy smell of boiled roots.
Beyond the canvas walls of the tent, the murmur of soldiers filled the chill morning—sharpening blades, tightening armor straps, the rough cadence of men readying for another day of bloodshed.
Lan sat cross-legged at a low table, Devil's Lie resting sheathed beside him, its rust-pitted blade wrapped in black leather that drank in the firelight.
His pale grey eyes reflected the wavering glow of a single lantern.
The flap stirred, and Miller entered. The Fourth Guard bowed his head slightly and held out a sealed letter.
"From Verdelane," he said. "The wax bears Duke Helard's crest."
