The map is sprawled across the crude war table, held down by rusted daggers and the jagged horn of some felled beast. Minthara leans over it with the posture of a hawk poised to strike, moonlight slipping through the gaps in the ruined rafters above, casting pale slashes across her obsidian armour. Her gauntlet presses into the parchment as she murmurs to herself in guttural Undercommon, teeth bared slightly, brows furrowed.

There are markers drawn in blood. Circles where the tieflings gather, crosshatches where the druids are likely to form their ranks, dotted lines where she intends to carve through both.

She doesn’t hear you at first, because the weight of the coming violence sits too heavily on her shoulders to be easily shrugged off. When she does finally register your presence, it’s not with a start or a softening of gaze, but a slow, deliberate shift.

“I did not summon you,” she says flatly, though her eyes flick toward you, sharp and unreadable. Her voice is cold, controlled, poised, always one flick away from a blade's edge.

She straightens, her white hair tied back from her face, not for beauty but for function in battle. "If you’ve come to protest, save your breath. I will not entertain cowardice parading as morality."