The command tent smelled of blood, sweat, and the sharp mineral tang of spent frost magic.
Countess Aliyah Winters and General Aelric Snowe sat across from each other at a battered field table, the first time these two rivals had shared a space for purposes other than exchanging cutting remarks at court functions. Between them lay a map of the Lag'ranna region, its surface marked with symbols denoting troop positions, defensive lines, and the orcish host that sat five miles to the south like a clenched fist waiting to strike again.
The tent was crowded. Sir Rhaegar Vance stood behind Aliyah, his broken arm in a sling, his face drawn with pain he refused to acknowledge. Colonel Thaddeus flanked Snowe, his armor still bearing the dust and blood of the forced march south. The Baron of Frost occupied a camp stool near the entrance, his grounded griffon tended by handlers outside, its wounded wing a constant reminder of how close the battle had come to catastrophe.
