The tent shivered slightly under the gusts coming from the valley. The wind passed between the ropes and made the iron rings jingle like a discreet death knell.
Inside, the air smelled of hot wax and leather. Candles placed on the table, next to oil lamps, let out a thin smoke, thick at times, mingling with the constant rustling of the parchment.
Sitting, my pen gripped so tightly my fingers had turned white, I scribbled again, again.
The lines crossed each other, nervous scratches, arrows drawn in haste, numbers crossed out.
Abyssium extraction, smuggling routes, clan tensions, possible betrayals… every line was a tightrope that crushed my skull.
I barely heard the wind anymore, only the dry scratching of the pen on the fiber, a sound that gnawed at me and kept me awake.
