Migzar Camp, two days earlier.
The military tents were lined up in perfect formation, as if even the canvas obeyed discipline. There was no disorder. There was no unnecessary noise—only preparation.
In the center of the camp, General Darion Vex stood in front of a map spread out on a field table, pinned down with daggers at the corners. His iron armor was polished to perfection, reflecting the gray light of dawn.
"Arkham remains weakened after the flood."
One of his officers spoke as he held several reports; a white messenger raven rested motionless on his shoulder.
"Its walls are damaged."
Darion nodded slowly. More than interest flashed in his eyes.
Opportunity.
"And the lord of the territory?"
"Unable to intervene directly. According to our reports, command now rests with his son. He was decisive during the uprising… but since his father's return, he has remained secluded in Zephyr's room."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved the general's lips.
