Patrick slowed his horse as the usurpers camp came into full view, rows of dark tents spread across the plain like a living thing waiting to devour anything that came too close. The banners of the usurpers fluttered above them, heavy and oppressive, and with every step his chest felt tighter, not from exhaustion but from fear that threatened to undo him before he even reached the center.
He forced himself to breathe steadily, just as Lucas had instructed. One breath in, one breath out. Panic would get his mother killed. Panic would get his brother killed. He repeated those thoughts silently until his hands stopped trembling.
Two guards crossed their spears in front of him as he approached the largest tent. "State your business," one of them demanded, his eyes sharp and suspicious.
"I have a report for the General," Patrick replied, lowering his head respectfully. "Scouting information from the western approach."
