"We've been put in a tough spot, Damra, how many able bodies do we have?" Ludwig asked.
The words cut through the last remnants of warmth like a blade dragged across stone. A moment ago, Damra had been a host, horn in hand, laughter on his tongue, surrounded by a crowd that pretended tomorrow was optional.
Now the same bonfire that had felt comforting looked like a war council's center, and the shadows around the torchline felt closer, as if the mountain itself was leaning in to listen.
Damra hesitated. A second ago, he was drinking, among peers, and now the fog of war was approaching.
It wasn't fear that made him pause. It was the quick mental pivot, how fast a leader had to shed comfort and pick up responsibility.
His eyes swept the settlement once, counting without moving his lips: who could lift steel, who could carry, who would freeze when blood spilled. The pause was short, but Ludwig noticed it anyway.
A leader who didn't pause before a war was a fool.
