I set the report down harder than necessary, the sound snapping against the stone tabletop, then immediately regret the loss of control and still my hand before it can repeat the motion. “We’ve always had orcs,” I say. “That’s not new.”
“Not like this,” Skot replies.
That phrase again, and this time I don’t dismiss it. I lean forward slightly, bracing my hands on the table as I look down at the routes, letting the shape of it form without forcing it into something convenient. The attacks aren’t scattered, and they aren’t reckless; they’re placed, measured, almost patient in a way that doesn’t fit the way most people describe orcs.
“Krago,” I say.
It isn’t a question, and Skot doesn’t treat it like one. “No one else operates this way.”
That’s the part I don’t like. Krago doesn’t waste effort, and he doesn’t test boundaries unless he intends to break them later. If this is his work, then what I’m looking at isn’t random violence—it’s preparation.
I drag my finger along the inked path, following the progression from one outer settlement to the next, noticing how each strike forces the supply lines to bend inward just a little more. “He’s not just hitting villages,” I say, more slowly now. “He’s shaping movement.”
“Inward,” Skot adds.
“Yes,” I agree, straightening slightly as the implication settles into something heavier than I’m comfortable with. “And if he keeps doing that, then he’s not done. He’s building toward something.”
Skot says nothing, which tells me he’s already reached the same conclusion and decided to wait for me to catch up. I don’t like that either, but I can’t argue with it.
I pick the report up again, scanning the loss projections at the bottom, the neat little line that labels everything as “within acceptable margins,” and I almost laugh at how cleanly they’ve reduced it. Villages erased, people gone, and it all collapses into a number that still fits inside a tolerable range.
“What’s the projected impact?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Minimal disruption to core supply,” Skot replies. “Within acceptable limits.”
Of course it is. It always is, right up until it isn’t.
I exhale slowly and set the parchment down with more control this time, flattening it against the stone with the heel of my hand before stepping away from the table. The corridor beyond the archway is dim, lit by cold magic that leaves more shadow than illumination, and the air carries that familiar dry weight of stone and control that defines this place.
“Then it isn’t a priority,” I say, because that’s the correct answer, the expected one, the one that keeps everything aligned.
Silence follows, but it doesn’t resolve into agreement or disagreement; it lingers instead, like something waiting to seewhich direction I’ll lean before it settles. Skot doesn’t move, and that stillness reads like observation rather than acceptance, which irritates me more than open disagreement would.
“You disagree,” I say, turning my head just enough to look at him.
“I observe,” he replies.
I almost smile at that, but it doesn’t quite land. “Of course you do,” I mutter, stepping into the corridor and letting the conversation end where it stands.
The estate moves around me the way it always does—quiet, controlled, efficient. Servants pass without looking up, guards maintain their routes with practiced precision, and nothing about it suggests anything has changed beyond the walls. That’s the point of a place like this; the world can burn at the edges, and as long as the center holds, no one calls it a problem.
I’m halfway down the corridor when her voice stops me.
“Verr.”
I close my eyes briefly before turning, already knowing who it is before I look.
She stands at the threshold of the garden entrance, dirt still clinging to her hands, a faint smear along her jaw where she must have wiped it away without thinking. There’s tension in her posture, not fear exactly, but urgency that hasn’t settled into anything controlled yet.
“You’re not supposed to be inside,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
She steps forward instead of answering immediately, closing the distance with a kind of deliberate care that feels different from before, like she’s choosing each movement instead of reacting to the space around her. “I need to talk to you.”
I glance down the corridor out of habit, confirming we’re not being watched closely enough for it to matter. “This isn’t the place.”
