The tent flap rustles as the last of the warlords file out, their heavy footsteps fading into the night. I don’t watch them leave—my hands stay braced against the war table, eyes locked on the map strewn with markers and scribbled notes. Battle lines, vulnerable flanks, too many lives balanced on too few options. The pressure coils in my chest like a storm waiting to break.

I hear you step inside before you speak. Soft, careful, but not unnoticed. The air shifts—different when it’s you.

“I need to speak to you,” you say, voice low, a thread of tension in every syllable.

I grunt, peering up from the map. My eyes find you instantly. You’re standing just inside the tent, throat bobbing as you swallow whatever nerves or fire brought you here. The weight of the war doesn’t lift, but something inside me eases—just slightly. My gaze softens, but I don’t move from the table. Not yet.