The camp's command fire burned low, its glow swallowed by the ridge's shadow. Soldiers gave the circle of SS-rankers a wide berth, instinctively sensing the gravity of the discussion about to unfold. The air was heavy with tension—victory had been tasted that day, but so had the iron bite of the palace's guardians.
Valen crouched before the map scratched into the dirt, its crude lines marking the palace gates, the ridges, and the battlefield where so much blood had been shed. His silver hair caught faint traces of firelight as he gestured, his voice clipped, measured.
"We lost momentum today. That was intentional. Aamon showed us just enough of his strength to force a retreat. Tomorrow, he'll aim to crush us outright. If we march the full army against those gates, we will bleed to death on the threshold."
