The war chamber was thick with the stench of sweat, scorched parchment, and the lingering iron bite of blood. Torches flickered along the stone walls, their flames trembling like the nerves of the men inside.
General Beige paced across the polished marble floor, boots echoing in the hush. Dust clung to his cloak, and a thin scar, fresh and raw, traced the edge of his jaw. His eyes, usually sharp, burned with frustration and something dangerously close to fear.
On the velvet-cushioned divan near the tall window, Lenora lounged like a queen in waiting. Bandages wrapped her arms, clean but tight, stained faintly pink where old wounds refused to fully heal. A porcelain teacup balanced between her fingers, untouched. Her breath came slow, calculated.
"There was no sign of her or her beast," Beige rasped, jaw tight. "We have searched the whole city in the pretense of catching some rebels and tearing through every home, shops and stalls but even the rebels where no where to be seen. "
