The shelter fell completely silent after Vane's confession.
The heavy canvas walls shuddered slightly as the mountain wind brushed against the exterior, and the small yellow flame of the iron lantern near the center table flickered weakly, casting long, erratic shadows across the faces of the gathered leaders. No one moved. No one even seemed to breathe properly anymore.
For months, they had been fighting a shadow—a collection of nameless bureaucrats, faceless soldiers, and vague rumors of external influence. But suddenly, their enemy had a face. He had a specific kingdom, a historical background, and a name. And somehow, having those concrete details didn't make the threat feel any more manageable. It made everything feel significantly worse.
Asarmose stood near the timber frame of the entrance, his body unnaturally still. His dark eyes were fixed on the floorboards, completely unreadable beneath the dim, shifting lantern light.
