Alpheo sat in his tent, the heavy canvas walls fluttering slightly from the evening breeze, though the air inside remained thick with the scent of oil candles and the lingering musk of sweat coming from thousands of men.
He barely spared a glance at the map sprawled across the table before him, his hand resting against his forehead, fingers digging into his temple as if he could knead the frustration from his skull.
The bastards still hadn't moved.
For a week now, every time his forces had pressed forward, they had simply retreated. The so-called lords of this rebellion—Niketas, Greogr, Lysandros, and Eurenis—tucked their tails and pulled back deeper into their holdings like rats scurrying for cover. Never standing, never fighting, never meeting him in the field. Just running.
Cowards.
