Inside the large campaign tent, the air was heavy with expectation.
A war table stood at the center, covered in maps, drawn lines, and carved figurines representing armies and territories. Oil lanterns flickered on every corner of the tent, casting shadows on the lined faces of hardened warriors. Leather and fur armor rustled as the summoned generals entered and took their places around the table. The tension was tangible, like the stillness before a storm.
Rolan stood in the middle, arms crossed and gaze sharp as steel.
Beside him were Arkhan and Arthurn, his most trusted vanguards, silent, stoic, and radiating unshakable loyalty. On the other end of the tent, Reginald leaned against one of the support beams with arms folded. He was half hidden in the dim light, keen eyes watching everything, as if dissecting every word before it was even spoken.
Then the flap of the tent opened.
