The air was heavy with heat and smells. The large tent I had erected at the center of the camp trapped both the moisture of the canvas and the scents of freshly scraped parchment.
The ink I used to draw my plans stained my fingers, leaving dark smudges on the map spread out before me. Sketches piled up on the corners of the table: road plans, irrigation channels, mines… It was still messy, hastily scribbled, but in my mind each line was already taking shape.
Around me, a dozen young people. Two or three from each clan, boys and girls, none older than twenty-five winters. Their eyes flicked from my ink-stained hands to my lips, as if they feared missing a single syllable. They weren't scholars yet… but they would become so.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the creak of the canvas and the crackling of embers in a brazier at the back. Finally, one of them spoke.
