"I can't… I refuse to believe the palace would heap this upon us!"
The air inside the command tent wasn't just cold, it felt like someone had turned the oxygen into tiny knives. Breathing? Optional. Regretting it? Immediate. Following the grim revelations of the field test, the sight of Velkyn behaving like starved addicts clawing at the glowing rocks, the internal atmosphere of the Northern high command had officially curdled.
The outburst came from Harlen, his face a mottled, unhealthy plum color. He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the map table, rattling the tin cups and sending a spray of ink across the tactical layout of the border. "We're out there bleeding for the crown, and they send us monster-bait disguised as heaters? It's a death sentence wrapped in a 'gift'!"
