HECTOR

It is sometime in the morning when I hear the shuffling outside the thick linen of my tent and the low whisper of conversation that blurred to an indecipherable hum.

”Shit,” I groaned, stretching to a stand in the half-lit expanse of the tent. There was a low wooden stool at the center of the space which I regarded for a moment, before snatching the leather of my trench coat off the hanger and breaking through the lips of the tent flap.

Some of the footmen who had been clearing the fallen logs off the dirt path bowed graciously when they saw me. 

“All done?” I whispered airily to...