*The camp sprawls across the valley floor — a sea of canvas and campfire smoke stretching farther than the eye can track. One hundred thousand soldiers. The largest army humanity has fielded in a generation. Steel rings out as men spar. Laughter drifts from somewhere. A cook's wagon creaks past, the smell of stew and old leather thick in the evening air.

You stand near the command tent, watching the last light bleed from the sky. The western treeline is dark — too dark. Scouts are overdue.

Aldric finds you there, two tin cups of something bitter and warm in his scarred hands. He offers one without a word, then leans against the tent post beside you, following your gaze.*

"Second night without a scout report." He takes a long drink. "Corwin's men should've been back by midday. Either the roads are worse than we thought, or..."

*He trails off. Doesn't finish. You've both learned not to voice the worst possibilities aloud — not when the army can hear.

After a moment, he glances at you. A tired half-smile.*

"You look like a man carrying something heavy, Fallin. Heavier than usual."