The report reached Dane at dusk, carried by a rider who did not dismount until ordered, who did not speak until given water.
That alone was telling.
Dane stood at the long table in the command pavilion, one hand braced against its edge, the other idly turning a signet ring around his finger. Maps lay spread before him - their routes inked in red, Northern borders marked and remarked again, as if repetition might make them weaker. Torches burned low, their light steady.
"Speak," Dane said.
The rider swallowed. "Two advances, my Prince. Both lost."
Silence followed. Not the sharp kind - no gasps, no murmurs. Just the quiet settling of a truth into place.
"How?" Dane asked.
"Intercepted by Northern troops." The rider hesitated, then forced the words out. "All dead, my Prince. No survivors. No prisoners taken."
Dane's mouth curved, just slightly.
"Where?"
The rider pointed. "Here, and here." Two routes on an uncommon path to the Northern capital. Not the most obvious.
