Fort Blackthorn's war chamber was colder than usual that morning.
Not because of the chill mountain winds, but because of the atmosphere inside—the tension clinging to the air like fog.
Darin stood beside the great war table, still chewing the last bit of cinnamon bun he'd smuggled in. Vincent was beside him, happily devouring his fifth. Alvin stood in his usual spot at the far corner, arms crossed and scowling like it was a profession.
Duchess Mary was already seated, a goblet of wine in her hand far too early in the day, and the look on her face said she would rather be wrestling a mountain wyvern than sitting through what was about to be said.
The chamber was filled with advisors, captains, tacticians, and a few old commanders that looked like they hadn't smiled since the last rebellion.
At the head of the table, the fedora-wearing scout unrolled a map and tapped the Icefang Cliffs.
"We've received multiple reports over the past week. Chicken men."
Silence.
