Camille

The war table is carved from a single slab of black oak, scarred by blades and burned at the edges from a battle long before my time. It fits the mood.

So do the men seated around it.

Torren stands with his fists braced against the wood, scars pulling tight across his knuckles. Varek leans back in his chair, boots propped on a lower rung, golden eyes sharp and calculating. Dain paces behind them like a restless hound, unable to sit still when blood is in the air.

And I sit at the head.

Scouts kneel near the wall, mud still clinging to their boots.

“Say it again,” I...