So I say nothing and continue toward the command center at the heart of the encampment.
As we descend, the stink of too many bodies and too much death becomes undeniable.
The camp is a strange mix of tumultuous triage and eerie emptiness. Phylax forces have been stationed here on and off for decades. Now they’re gone, and the reinforcements are still days away.
The empty tents make the place look like a ghost town. Which isn’t exactly reassuring.
We make our way through the medical triage area, feet squishing through deep mud.
I don’t know much about medical care, but even I can see that the workers here are shorthanded.
The few medics rush back and forth without stopping to rest. And to our left, a wagon that holds several bodies just… lies there.
I’m sure someone is going to come back for them, make certain they get home to their families so they can properly grieve. Still, the sight of them waiting is unsettling.
I look again as we pass closer to the dead, and my breath catches. I recognize one of them.
Roddert. He was Strategos. From my training cohort.
He sat at breakfast with us. I remember him staring at Izabel as if she were made of diamonds. I remember him sparring with Nevah. She said he had an uncannily good grasp of parrying.
Guess it wasn’t uncanny enough.
It hits me. Actually, it rolls over me like a snow squall. I’m drowning and burning at the same time. Because they’re not just anonymous casualties. Being here, seeing it, feeling it.Knowingit.
It’s impossible to put distance between myself and the lives being lost.
How many familiar faces will I never see again?
Izabel’s name rings in my ears.
“Meryn.”
I lift my head and see we’ve reached the central command tent. Stark holds open the door flap, waiting for me to enter first.
I exhale deeply and duck inside. The interior is dark, save for a few streams of light from slits in the tent’s canvas, a handful of lanterns, and a single brazier billowing smoke up into a ventilation channel.
Several people are gathered around a table. Goblets are scattered about the surface, as well as maps and figurines meant to represent the current strategic situation. A dagger juts out of the table’s wood, like it was plunged there in the middle of an argument and forgotten about.
As always, Siegrid cuts an imposing figure. She’s bent over the maps, her expression dark as she receives reports from soldiers. Her arms are spread, scarred, and tattooed. Her head is bowed. She’s listening to them like each word they say might be their last, depending on her mood.
Stark and Noemi duck into the tent after me, and the three of us wait for a break in the briefing. A stir moves through the tent as people realize I’ve arrived, and Siegrid lifts her head.
When she sees me, her posture doesn’t change. She remains with her hands braced, her wide shoulders on display, her biceps tightening.
And then, rather than addressing me, she looks past me and says, “Noemi, it’s so good to have you with us.”
Turning to the rest of the pack leaders gathered, she explains: “Noemi resisted the Phylax defection and refused to follow her pack when they declared for Killian.”
Noemi’s eyes turn to storm clouds. Her body is taut like a bowstring.
A Kryptos Gamma gives Noemi a frankly assessing look. Something in the way he stares at her makes me bristle.
I don’t have a chance to think about it anymore before Siegrid dismisses her officers with a stern command.
I turn toward her as the rest of the men and women file out. A few of them glance at me or Noemi before looking away quickly. Not one of them looks at Stark.
Then it’s just the four of us in the commander’s tent. And suddenly I remember all the things that Stark told me about Siegrid. The woman she is. My blood heats with anger, shadows starting to stir, and I have a ridiculous urge to step between her and Stark.
