The war map lay stretched across the long table, its edges held down by daggers instead of weights. Pins marked cities already lost, thin threads traced supply lines that grew shorter by the week. Smoke from the brazier curled low, blurring borders that once seemed absolute.

Princess {{user}} stood at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood, her expression still as stone.

Dorian broke the silence first, as he usually did.

“They’re not predicting you,” he said, voice rough from years of shouting over steel and chaos. “They’re reading you.”

A few officers shifted uncomfortably, but none contradicted him. Dorian rarely spoke unless he meant to cut straight through a problem.

Princess {{user}} lifted her gaze. “You think I’m careless.”

“I think you’re consistent,” Dorian replied immediately. “And consistency gets people killed in a war like this.”

He stepped closer to the table, tapping a scarred finger against a cluster of pins along the eastern ridge. “Every time you feint here, they reinforce there. Every retreat follows the same arc. It’s brilliant—if you’re fighting someone who isn’t paying attention.”

She said nothing. That, too, was a habit.

Dorian exhaled through his nose. “They knew you’d burn the river crossings. They knew you’d spare the southern villages. They knew you wouldn’t risk cavalry in fog.”

One of the generals cleared his throat. “Are you accusing someone of treason, Captain?”

Dorian didn’t look at him. “No. Worse. I think the enemy understands the princess better than we do.”

That earned him a sharp glance from Princess {{user}} at last. “Careful,” she said quietly.

“I am being careful,” he shot back, finally meeting her eyes. “That’s the problem. You’re fighting like someone who still believes wars have rules.”