The Bloodmarked Council

The night was thick, the mist pressing low over Rivermarch like a shroud, curling around the flickering torchlight. The air stank of blood.

Brinnard Whitewood stood just outside Linzi's tent, his broad shoulders squared, his expression unforgiving.

He had given the order.

And the first to arrive was Tartuk.

The kobold wasn't escorted by his own followers, nor did he slink in with his usual air of knowing detachment. No—he was brought in by Brinnard's own soldiers. The violet-scaled kobold walked between them, not restrained, not dragged, but summoned. And Tartuk, for all his usual games, came without complaint.

Brinnard's steel-gray eyes locked onto him the moment he stepped into the firelight. He didn't waste time.

"Your damn halfling is missing."

The words hit sharp and cold, a statement of fact, not an accusation.

Tartuk stilled. His golden eyes flicked toward the tent, toward the dark, wet stains visible even in the dim glow of torchlight. For a moment—just a flicker—his expression shifted. Not his usual smirk, not some clever quip waiting on his tongue. Something else. Something like concern.

"…Gone?" Tartuk's voice was low, the amusement that usually laced his words absent.

Brinnard's jaw tightened. He didn't like Tartuk. Didn't trust him. But Brinn—his grandson—did. And like it or not, Tartuk was part of the council.

Brinnard exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as the tension settled heavy in his chest. "Blood all over her tent. No body. Tartuccio's in a box until I figure out what the hell he did." His tone was gravel and steel, each word measured, pushing past his bad mood and into something far more dangerous—something focused.

Tartuk's gaze flicked back to the tent. His fingers tapped against his robes, his tail twitched. Brinnard watched him carefully. The kobold was calculating. Not scheming. Thinking. Brinnard didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.

"You've got something to say, say it," he muttered, arms crossing over his broad chest. "Otherwise, fall in line with the rest of the damn council when they get here."

The torchlight wavered, the air hanging thick with questions. And still, the others had yet to arrive.

As Gideon approached the tent, he took in the scene. Tent open to the outside, blood visible at a distance. Brinnard looking more pissed off than usual. Tartuk seemingly cowed...and by Brinnard. Nav moved forward ahead of Gideon, Gideon's face flashed through confusion, recognition, and finally settled on rage.

Nav suddenly surged forward, making an attempt to throttle him. "You sorry excuse for a lizard! What have you done!" A trio of force darts materialized above Gideon's hand, ready to fire.

The eidolon moved like a viper striking, claws flashing as he shot forward, aiming straight for Tartuk's throat. And Gideon? Gideon didn't stop him. His fingers curled tight, voice seething with fury as a trio of force darts materialized above his hand, their edges pulsing with raw magic, hovering, waiting—

Tartuk's golden eyes narrowed, his tail flicking in pure irritation, but there was no panic, no flinch, only annoyance—like a man being interrupted mid-thought rather than mid-accusation.

Brinnard's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as steel and twice as unamused.

"Stand. Down."

The words hit like an anvil, but Brinnard didn't even wait for compliance. He exhaled, his patience already fraying.

"The purple gnome was in here."

That alone should have been enough to explain the situation. But seeing that it wasn't, Brinnard sighed heavily, his expression carved from stone.

"Tartuccio was in here. There is blood everywhere. And Linzi isn't here." His tone remained gravel and iron, the weight behind the words undeniable.

Gideon's force darts remained for a breath longer, Nav still coiled in place, claws just inches from Tartuk's throat.

Then—

A flicker. A recognition.

Tartuk's expression shifted, his brows lifting ever so slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as he regarded Gideon. Like a man who had just put something together. Like a man who suddenly found this whole mess very, very interesting.

Brinnard, already done with this entire situation, exhaled sharply. "So if you two are done pissing at each other, maybe we can figure out what the hell happened here." Gideon's hand slowly fell and Nav relaxed. Embarrassment clear on his face, Gideon schooled his expression and gave a curt nod

"My mistake Counselor Tartuk, your history with Linzi and the visual here made me lose my head for a moment. I..... apologize."

"I suspect the remainder of the council will arrive soon and we can begin our investigation."

Brinn arrived just in time to see Nav lunge, Gideon's magic primed to fire, and Tartuk standing there—unbothered, watching it all unfold with that knowing look that Brinn had learned to hate. Brinn stayed quiet through the exchange, arms crossed, eyes sharp and steady as the pieces fell into place.

Gideon's rage was understandable, even predictable. Tartuk was easy to blame. Too easy. And that was the problem.

Brinn glanced at his grandfather—at Brinnard, whose expression was still locked in its usual brand of barely-contained irritation. But beneath that? Agreement.

Tartuk had never been trusted. Brinn knew that. But trust and usefulness weren't the same thing, and right now, the kobold was more useful standing with them than being throttled in the dirt.

Brinn finally exhaled through his nose and stepped forward, his voice cutting clean through the tension.

"Gideon's not wrong to be suspicious." His gaze flicked toward Tartuk, leveling, but not hostile. "You play your cards too close to the chest, Tartuk. You keep secrets. You make people wonder where your real loyalty lies. And Linzi?" His jaw flexed. "She's ours."

A pause.

"But."

His voice shifted, not softening—Brinn didn't soften—but turning steady, measured.

"My grandfather's right. If anyone's to blame for what happened here, it's Tartuccio first." His steel-gray eyes scanned the bloodstained tent. "And as much as I'd love to put him in the dirt for good, I'd rather have answers first."

Brinn turned his focus back to Tartuk. "You're not above suspicion. But you came when summoned. You didn't fight it. And whatever else you are, you're not stupid." His arms uncrossed, his posture shifting just slightly. "So I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. Don't make me regret it."

He let that settle before glancing at Gideon.

"You're right. The council's coming. We do this together. No more lashing out. No more jumping to conclusions. We find Linzi, and we make the bastard responsible pay."

His voice dropped low, colder than the mist curling through the night.

"That's how we do things in Rivermarch."

Brinnard Whitewood let out a slow, gravel-thick exhale, his patience wearing thinner than the mist curling through the camp. This night had already gone to hell, and now he had to stand here, listening to a bunch of back-and-forth while the halfling was still missing.

His gaze swept over the bloodstained tent, then to his grandson, then finally landed on Tartuk, who—for once—wasn't wearing that smug little smirk of his.

Brinnard rolled his shoulders, his jaw tight, and muttered under his breath, "We could speed this up and just execute the bastard gnome. Can't trust them."

A beat of silence.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Brinnard caught movement. Gideon. The gnome stiffened, his sharp features flashing with something unreadable for a split second before settling into something much harder.

Brinnard exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite an apology, but something in between. His hand waved vaguely in Gideon's direction, his voice gruff.

"Not you." A pause, then, less begrudging, but still very much Brinnard Whitewood. "Should've said purple bastard."

The clarification wasn't much of an apology, but it was the closest Gideon was going to get.

Tartuk, meanwhile, had not moved. His golden eyes flicked between Brinnard and Gideon, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked genuinely irritated. Then, his tail flicked once, a sharp snap against the dirt, his voice dry and cutting.

"An easy target, is it?"

He didn't look at Brinnard when he said it. Didn't have to. His gaze shifted from Gideon, to Brinn, and finally to the blood-streaked ground.

"I have kept this kingdom standing just as much as any of you. And yet, the moment blood is spilled," he gestured toward the tent, "I am the first name dragged through the dirt."

Brinnard's expression didn't change. His lack of reaction was an answer in itself.

Tartuk let the silence stretch, his tail flicking again.

"Tartuccio is the fool here. Not me."

Brinnard gave a short, gruff exhale, neither agreeing nor disagreeing—just acknowledging the truth of it.

Tartuk rolled his shoulders, and when his smirk returned, it was thinner, sharper.

"Fine. You want my help? You'll have it. Not because I need your mercy, Brinn, but because Linzi is worth more than this godsdamned spectacle."

He turned, casting one last glance toward the bloodstained tent, before flicking his golden eyes back to Brinnard. "And for the record, General—" his smirk curled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, "you can trust me about as much as I trust you. But we still get things done, don't we?"

Brinnard let out a slow exhale, gruff and unimpressed, already annoyed that he was agreeing with a damn kobold. But he didn't argue. Because the bastard wasn't wrong.

Borion arrived.

The walk through Rivermarch was eerily quiet. Though the streets were never bustling at this hour, there was an unnatural stillness—as if the very air had thickened, pressing down on the settlement.

Borion passed familiar faces, or at least, the silhouettes of soldiers and council members, clustered in hushed conversation. Maximus stood nearby, still as a statue, his glowing eyes unreadable. Tybalt watched the tent, arms crossed, his tail flicking—agitated, calculating.

Something was wrong.

At last, they reached Linzi's tent. The entrance was already drawn open, revealing a dimly lit space where the council had gathered.

Borion paused at the threshold, scanning the room, instinctively taking in every detail before stepping forward.

"Well," he mused, his voice light but carefully measured, "I do hope this isn't an intervention—because if it is, I should warn you, I'm quite fond of my bad habits."

Then he saw the blood.

It was everywhere.

Not just a few drops—a dark pool spreading across the floor, soaking into fabric, smearing under boots. The sharp scent of iron filled the tent, thick and suffocating.

His smirk vanished.

His amethyst eyes flicked downward, tracing the stains to their source, and suddenly the room felt smaller. The flickering lanternlight cast long, jagged shadows, warping the scene before him. His fingers twitched at his side—not reaching for his blade, but hesitating on the edge of motion, as if his body wasn't sure whether to prepare a spell or brace for the weight of what came next.

Borion took a single step forward. This time, he said nothing.

Maximus strode up to Gerrek, his glowing eyes narrowing as the tension in the camp thickened. The night had already spiraled into chaos, and he wasn't about to let Grigor make it worse.

"Gerrek," Maximus said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "Grigor is stirring up trouble and disrupting the public. Arrest him—quickly and cleanly. Take whoever you need. I want this handled now."

Gerrek gave a sharp nod, already scanning the area for his best men. "Understood, Warden. He won't have time to cause more trouble."

Without hesitation, he signaled to a handful of the best-trained guards, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons. Within moments, they were moving with purpose, cutting through the camp like a blade through cloth, closing in on Grigor before he had a chance to slip away or incite further unrest.

Maximus lingered just long enough to watch them disappear into the crowd before turning his attention back to securing the rest of the camp. Linzi was still missing, and there was no time to waste.

Tybalt's eyes flicked toward Borion, watching as the noble sorcerer took in the bloodied scene with a growing, sharpened awareness. His usual wit had dulled at the sight of the sheer volume of blood, the weight of the air thick with something unsaid. Good. It meant he understood—this wasn't just an attack. It was a statement.

And yet, it wasn't complete.

Tybalt turned, his gaze landing on Gideon, his sharp mind already weaving together a new thread—one that had been left untouched until now. His tail curled, flicking once in consideration before he spoke, his voice low enough to stay within the gathered council's ears, but firm enough to command attention.

"Borion. Gideon." His tone was measured, but pressing, a quiet insistence beneath it. "There's something you need to know."

His clawed fingers tapped against his forearm, another calculated movement. A thought taking shape.

The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar yet heavy, the kind of name that didn't go unnoticed. Tybalt pressed forward before anyone could cut in.

"He spoke of Linzi."

That caught their attention. A sharp pause. A flicker of tension tightening between them.

Tybalt's voice didn't waver.

"Crowne knew of her, not just as our chronicler, but as someone being watched." His eyes swept over the gathered council, taking in each reaction before continuing. "He told me she had a ring—a magic one. Something rare, something old. An artifact of Shelyn, supposedly capable of whisking her away in the instant before death."

His tail snapped once against the dirt, irritation lacing his words.

"I didn't know if I believed him." A pause, a breath. "But I wasn't about to take the risk. That's why I sent for guards last night. Why I told Brinnard to post men at her tent."

He exhaled sharply, his black eyes narrowing at the scene before him.

"And now, this." His voice dropped lower, his tail curling again as he gestured toward the bloodied floor. "Linzi is gone. Tartuccio is caught red-handed, but it's too convenient, too perfect. We weren't ready because we didn't think we needed to be."

His gaze locked onto Borion, then Gideon.

"But that ring." His voice was measured, but pressing, a quiet insistence beneath it. "If Crowne was telling the truth, then that ring was meant to activate the moment Linzi was about to die. And if it worked—if it did just that—then where the hell did it take her?"

Borion's eyes snapped to him, and Tybalt saw it—the flicker of recognition, the puzzle piece dropping into place.

He pressed forward.

"We assumed the magic worked. But did it leave a trace? Did it act on its own? Can we track it?"

His black eyes turned sharp as flint toward Gideon next.

"I know magic isn't my domain, but I do know this—spells leave behind echoes. A tether, a residue, something. That ring had to be tied to something. You two are the best at what you do."

A pause.

"So tell me—where the hell did it take her?"

Brinnard Whitewood's jaw tightened as Tybalt spoke, his weathered hands balling into fists at his sides. His eyes, sharp and steady, swept over the scene once more—the blood, the absence, the unsettling precision of it all.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and firm, a blade's edge of controlled fury.

"We're wasting time standing here."

His gaze flicked to Borion and Gideon, expectant. "If that ring left a trace, find it. If there's a trail, we follow it. Now."

Then, to Tybalt, his voice like iron.

"If Crowne knew this much, what else is he keeping from you?"

Gideon nodded to Tybalt and looked to Borion

"Start with the obvious, detect magic and see what schools we are working with. Conjuration would suggest the ring works and in the way Tybalt has described, a reverse summoning. I feel illusions would have buckled at this point if they were used, but best to check. Abjuration to see if there are any lingering wards."

Gideon's mind began to pick up, putting the question of who aside. That was an investigation best left to Tybalt, Max, and Brinn Sr.

"Divination. If she was being protected by a goddess there would need to be some level scrying being used. Necromancy? Not likely. Enchantment? Perhaps on the ring itself, might give us thread to search for. Transmutation. Hmmm. No, doesn't fit."

Gideon considered the last. "Evocation. If she managed to fight back. "

"Borion, thoughts?"

Borion's fingers traced the lingering strands of magic in the air, his amethyst eyes narrowing as he focused on the resonance left behind. The energy hummed against his skin—not Conjuration, not Abjuration, but Divination. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he simply listened to the remnants of the spell before letting out a slow breath and letting the magic fade.

"Divination," he said, glancing toward Gideon and Tybalt. "No teleportation, no defensive wards—just a scrying signature. Which means the ring worked. It wasn't just a myth or some old collector's trinket—Linzi was pulled away before she could die." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "The Enigma Emporium saw a few artifacts like this pass through when I was younger—Nymerian craft, supposedly imbued with divine favor, whisking someone away at the moment of death. I always thought the story was just to increase the price." His lips twitched slightly, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess I was wrong." His gaze flicked to the blood on the floor, and his voice steadied. "Wherever she is, she's alive. We just have to figure out where the ring sent her."

Tartuk's yellow eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his staff as he let out a low, thoughtful grunt. His gaze flicked from Borion to the blood, then back again, his tail curling in consideration.

"So the halfling might still be alive?" His voice was rough, grating—half skepticism, half reluctant amusement. He tilted his head, claws drumming idly against Vakar's Fang. "Hah. Lucky little thing. Most don't get second chances." His lips curled slightly, something between a smirk and a sneer. "But if she's gone, someone still wanted us to see this mess. Which means we're still being played." His eyes darted to Tybalt. "So tell me, rat—what's our next move?"

Brinnard crossed his arms, his sharp gaze flicking to Maximus as the automaton spoke. He let out a gruff chuckle, shaking his head.

"I like your gumption, Metalman," he rumbled, "but let the magic folk do their tricks first. No sense sending men out blindly, trying to find a child-sized person in this big ass forest, when these lot might be able to point us in the right direction." He jerked his head toward Borion and Gideon. "Let them work. Once we've got a trail, then we move." His fingers flexed at his side, ready. "And when we do, we'll find her fast."

Tybalt's tail snapped once against the dirt, his sharp black eyes flicking between Borion, Gideon, and Tartuk, pulling their findings together like threads in a snare. His mind raced, sorting, discarding, connecting.

Linzi was alive. But someone had planned for this.

He exhaled slowly, crossing his arms, fingers tapping against his sleeve in that quiet, calculating rhythm.

"Then we assume two things. One, Linzi is alive. Two, whoever orchestrated this wanted us to react—but not fast enough to catch them."

His whiskers twitched as he cast a glance toward the blood pooling across the tent floor.

"They left us a mess, but not a message. No ransom. No demands. They wanted confusion. Hesitation. They wanted us off-balance while they got ahead."

His gaze snapped to Borion and Gideon.

"If it's Divination, that means someone was watching. Is there a way to trace the spell back to its source? A caster strong enough to scry and pull her away didn't do this alone. Magic like this doesn't just vanish—it lingers, right?"

His fingers tightened against his sleeve.

"We need to find the last point of contact. The ring had to have been connected to something. A focus. A plane. A location. You two are the best at what you do—find the thread before it fades."

Then, to Tartuk.

Tybalt's black eyes narrowed at the kobold's smirk, but he didn't rise to the bait. He knew what Tartuk was doing—poking, testing, prodding for weakness. That was fine. He didn't need the kobold's reverence—just his results.

"You're right. We're being played." His voice was flat, cutting through the torch-lit mist like a blade. "Which means we start playing back."

His tail twitched, curling in thought.

"If someone wanted us to panic, they planned for our immediate reactions. But what they can't plan for is what we learn next."

His gaze flicked back to Brinnard.

"Lock down Rivermarch. No one leaves, no one enters unless we say so." His tone left no room for argument. "Word of Linzi's disappearance spreads, but only under our control. If someone's waiting for the next move, we let them believe we're stumbling."

His mind worked quickly, methodically. He turned his attention to Maximus.

"We'll need to scour the area for anyone acting out of place. Find them. Watch them. Anyone asking too many questions? Anyone suddenly packing up to leave? They might know more than they're letting on."

Then, finally, he turned back to Tartuk, his tail flicking once more, this time with purpose.

"You've got the instinct for sniffing out traitors. If someone's moving against us, they had to have allies close. Maybe in our camp. Maybe outside of it. Find them."

Tybalt let a beat of silence settle, then straightened, his voice lowering slightly, losing none of its edge.

"You handle the hunt above ground. I'll take the tunnels."

His whiskers twitched.

"If there's someone out there feeling bold, they'll be sniffing around the streets, watching from the edges. But if there's someone smart?" He rolled his shoulders, his posture shifting slightly, almost casual—almost.

"They'll go underground. Into the warrens, into the places no one thinks we're watching."

His black eyes flicked toward the deepest shadows of the settlement, where the streets ended and the hidden world beneath Rivermarch began.

"I'll check in with my eyes and ears. If there's word on Linzi, or on whoever made her disappear, I'll find it."

A slow breath. A final glance toward the bloodied tent, the cold night air thick with tension.

"We don't chase ghosts." His voice dropped, cold and certain. "We hunt the ones who sent them."

Borion stood still, the flickering torchlight catching the silver filigree of his runestone, arcane inscriptions humming softly beneath his fingers. He exhaled slow and steady, grounding himself, letting his mind slip past the noise—the sharp-edged voices of command and concern.

He raised his hand, fingers curling through the practiced motions of a spell, his Bastard Sword resting at his side, silent and waiting. Power coiled at his fingertips, spreading outward in unseen tendrils, searching, unraveling the echoes left behind.

Detect Magic.

The world shifted. The mundane peeled away, revealing the residual strands of energy clinging to the tent like the last embers of a dying fire. Magic had been here, had worked its will and moved on, leaving only ghosts of its presence. Borion narrowed his eyes, following the threads, searching for their origin, for a tether that could be traced.

And yet—nothing.

No caster's signature. No arcane imprint of a mind shaping reality. No residue of an incantation spoken into existence. This was not the work of a single magician. It wasn't a spell flung across distances or woven in the back of a dimly lit room.

It was something deeper. Something detached.

His focus sharpened, settling on the ring.

Borion's fingers drummed against his sword hilt. "You know, there's an old story about these." His tone was dry, almost amused, but the weight behind his words was anything but light. "A legend. A clever lie—or so I always thought."

He exhaled sharply, as if scoffing at himself.

"They say Shelyn blessed a set of rings, infused them with her power—that she watches over the wearers personally." His eyes flicked toward the abandoned ring, lying cold and untouched. "A nice little tale to comfort the fearful. Something to ease a mother's mind before she sends her son off to war." His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk, wasn't quite disbelief. "A clever lie to upmarket a cheap trinket."

His gaze darkened, the weight of doubt and realization settling in.

"But maybe…" He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "Maybe they aren't all fake."

The thought sat uncomfortably.

Borion's fingers tightened against his sleeve, his voice lowering. "If the legend holds any truth—if Shelyn's sight lingers on the ring's bearer—then whatever took Linzi wasn't just moving against her. It was moving against something… or someone watching over her."

His gaze swept across the room, past the gathered figures, back to the place where blood still darkened the floor.

"The strands are here, but they don't lead anywhere. It's like… whatever took Linzi didn't come from this side of the veil." He shook his head slightly. "I can't trace it back because there's nothing to trace. This wasn't the work of a wizard lurking in the streets. It wasn't even the work of a wizard at all."

Gideon nodded. "Perhaps we locate a Shelyn cleric and ask the patron directly"

Tybalt let out a measured breath, his tail curling as his mind sorted through the threads laid before him. Divination. A goddess' touch. A ring that may have done more than simply save Linzi's life.

He didn't pretend to understand magic at its deepest levels—that was for the others. But what he did understand? The way people worked. The way plans were set in motion. The way a single thread, pulled just right, could unravel everything.

His gaze swept from Borion to Gideon, then back to the ring lying untouched.

"If the next step is divine, then it's yours to take. We'll need someone who can commune with Shelyn, someone who can tell us whether this was her hand at work—or something that reached past her influence."

Then, without hesitation, he reached for the small, colorless flask at his belt, lifting it briefly into the flickering torchlight.

"If we're to be asking questions, I have a few tools to make sure we get the right answers." His tone was flat, businesslike. "This is a preparation of my own. Tasteless, odorless, difficult to detect unless you know what to look for. Induces a suggestible state, eases lips looser than they ought to be."

He turned the vial slowly between his fingers, then tucked it back into the belt beneath his cloak.

"I'll conduct the interrogations myself if necessary, but time may not allow me the luxury. If anyone else will be speaking with Grigori and Tartuccio, I'll sit in, if I can. If not—" his whiskers twitched, "then I'll make sure they're well-supplied."

His gaze cut away from the council now, out toward the darkened streets of Rivermarch, where whispers moved faster than torchlight.

"Because while we're pulling answers from two prisoners, there are others still moving in the dark." His voice dropped slightly, not cold, but focused. "Someone knew Linzi had the ring. Someone knew enough to orchestrate this."

His tail flicked once, a sharp snap against the dirt.

"You can chase the answers above ground. I'll be checking the ones below."

A slow breath. A final glance at the blood pooling in the dirt.

"Let's see what the underbelly of Rivermarch has to say."

Tybalt let the silence settle for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the gathered council. The weight of the night hung thick over them, the scent of blood still clinging to the air, the unanswered questions pressing like a vice.

His tail flicked once, measured, controlled.

"Unless there's something else that needs to be said, I'd say we've lingered long enough in this morose gathering." His voice was steady, but laced with finality. "We all have our roles to play—some in the light, some in the dark. Let's see what answers the night brings us."

He rolled his shoulders, the faintest exhale slipping past his lips before his black eyes flicked between Brinnard, Borion, Gideon, and the others.

"Anything else?"

Maximus said, "I can accompany you in questioning of the prisoners, Gerrek should have the city on lock by now."

Tybalt nodded once, his black eyes flicking toward Maximus, weighing the offer with careful consideration. It was a solid proposal, and he wouldn't turn away capable hands in an interrogation—but time was a resource they couldn't waste.

"I'm eager to see what they know, but time is of the essence in a case like this." His tail flicked once, sharp and deliberate. "Grigori should be well-secured before we begin, and as for Tartuccio…" A small, knowing smirk ghosted across his features before vanishing just as quickly.

"The more time he spends in that box, the more apt he'll be to speak." His tone was matter-of-fact, not cruel—just pragmatic. "Let him stew in the dark a little longer. He'll be far more agreeable for it."

He exhaled slowly, straightening his posture.

"We'll do this just after first light. Enough time to prepare, but not enough for them to compose themselves." His gaze settled on Maximus once more, a firm nod sealing the agreement. "We'll meet then."

His black eyes swept the tent one last time, settling briefly on each of them—Brinnard, Borion, Gideon, Tartuk, Maximus. The weight of the night was thick, heavy, but there was work to be done.

"May fortune favor our tasks and sharpen our hands," he said, his voice even but laced with quiet resolve. "Come morning, we take back the ground we've lost."

With that, he turned sharply, his cloak shifting behind him as he slipped past the threshold of the tent and into the waiting night, the mist curling at his heels as he disappeared into the shadows of Rivermarch.