When he returned to the tent, the lamps were on.
The canvas flap fell shut behind him with a soft rustle, muting the distant sounds of the camp—boots on mud, low voices, the faint clink of armor being checked for the coming day. Inside, the royal tent felt like a different world. Warm. Close. Heavy with tension.
The mage-lamps had been turned up from their previous dim glow, hovering in the air like small captured suns. Their light spilled over cushions, maps, weapons, and people.
Elowen sat on her cushions near the central low table, a loose robe wrapped around her, the silken fabric pooling around her legs. Her silver hair was unbound, flowing over her shoulders and down her back, still slightly tangled from sleep and from him. She looked softer like that, more human—but the set of her shoulders said queen very clearly.
