The tent stank of oiled leather, wet fur, and something older, like dried blood sunken too deep into the wood to scrub clean.
A broad strategy table dominated the center, a slab of dark, grainy oak veined with burn marks and shallow knife grooves. Lines were scratched into the surface (crudely carved topographies of cliff, marsh, and trench), each labeled in charcoal or scratched bone.
Over the battle map stood miniature effigies: lead knights without faces, carved wooden beasts with overlong teeth, and black marbles that represented unknown forces.
A few knights had been knocked over. No one had bothered to raise them, in a span of five days, their numbers had increased.
Surrounding the table stood commanders and sub-commanders, each draped in cloaks of wet wool and silent ambition.
At the head was Knight-Arcanists Holdo, arms folded, expression stone. Beside her stood Scioness Sophia, not in armor, but silk wrapped over scars, her green eyes calm, unreadable.
