Evening air saturated with campfire smoke and anxiety—that special kind hovering before big changes. My lathered horse rode between tents, and soldiers' eyes already read understanding: fate decided to dice with their lives. Without a word, I was already plague's messenger.
Beren de Silvan approached—near peer, but with youthful seriousness coming too early to commanders' sons. Nature decided: some must grow up faster.
— Good evening, Sholn, —his voice held tone for weather before storm. — Since you're here, bad tidings.
— Like read from face, —I smiled bitterly.
Urben de Silvan's tent met us with scent of leather and metal. The old commander sat at camp table, studying maps as if seeking answers geography can't solve. Age imprinted not wrinkles but fatigue in eyes—that coming to those who've seen too much.
— Good evening, Urben de Silvan. I have bad news.
The old man didn't lift eyes from maps. Maybe hoped: not look at messenger—and message less scary.
— Related to the kingdom?
— Yes.
Urben slowly set aside maps, like laying down arms before inevitable.
— Call Beren. He should know. I'm old, not long left.
Beren appeared instantly—waited nearby, preparing for moment when childhood finally left behind.
— Called, father?
— Sholn de Lorens will tell us now.