Meanwhile a bit away from the altar, there was a tent was small. Made of thick black cloth, staked deep into the ground. It didn't flap or shift with the wind. Nothing here did.
Inside, the air was cooler, but not fresh.
Lanterns hung from the corners, casting a low yellow light over the old wooden table in the center.
The table was scarred, burned in places, the surface showed faded ink, spilled powder, and strange, dried symbols.
Two men stood inside.
One near the entrance, arms crossed, silent.
The other, closer to the table, crouched slightly, squinting at something inside a bowl.
The one near the entrance looked calm, focused. Broad shoulders, short black hair, cloak still dusted from his walk through the forest—a soldier's frame, careful posture, and no wasted motion.
He glanced toward the flap and frowned.
"This is reckless," he said. His voice was steady, but sharp. "We've barely anchored the zone.
