The tent smelled of ink and candle wax.
Maps covered the table in overlapping layers. Terrain reports. Troop movements. Supply lines drawn in charcoal that smudged at the edges where fingers had traced and retraced routes through the night. A foxkin war tent was never loud. No banners hung from the posts. No trophies lined the walls. Information was the only decoration that mattered.
Silver sat at the center of it, legs crossed, tail still. His silver fur caught the candlelight in a way that made him look carved from marble. Sharp features, even sharper eyes, and a face built for patience and long silences.
He was the foxkin tribal leader, the same whose son Quinlan had killed when he visited beastkin lands.
Three scouts knelt before him.
"Thornwall fell at dawn," the first reported. "Dwarven siege engines breached the eastern gate. Covenant forces emerged from the tunnels beneath the merchant quarter simultaneously. Garrison was overrun within ninety minutes."
