The arrival at the first waypoint was less of a majestic military maneuver and more of a gritty, desperate scramble against a sun that was dropping faster than a lead weight. The North didn't offer hospitality; it merely permitted survival if you were fast enough with a hammer and a tent peg.
Zarius was supposed to be listening to Elios who was currently shouting something about scout rotations and the narrowing bottlenecks ahead where the beast tide usually funneled through, his finger tracing a jagged line across a tactical map that was fighting to take flight in the biting wind. It was serious business that usually demanded Zarius's absolute, undivided attention.
Even the Duke's attention was slipping, which was unusual, he normally didn't miss a thing.
