“With respect, my lord,” I say carefully, “I have work to finish.”
His eyes narrow just slightly—not anger, not quite.
Focus.
“Answer the question.”
My fingers press into the dirt again.
“What question?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
He studies me.
“Liar.”
The word lands soft, but certain.
“Villages are being attacked,” I say, the words slipping out before I can pull them back.
His expression doesn’t change.
But his attention sharpens.
“Where?”
“North,” I say. “But not just north.”
“How do you know that?”
I glance down at the dirt, at the lines I’ve already drawn.
“I just do.”
“Show me.”
My breath catches.
“This isn’t?—”
“Now.”
I swallow, then shift slightly, dragging my finger through the soil again.
“Here,” I say, tracing a rough line. “Outer routes.”
Then another.
“They hit here. Then they cut around.”
My hand moves without thinking now, mapping what I’ve seen in pieces, what I’ve carried in the back of my mind for years.
“And if they keep moving like that…”
I stop.
