The tent was packed again.
Not with soldiers, but with maps, old voices, and stale arguments. It smelled like dust, cold steel, and something sharp beneath it all, fear.
Lindarion stood near the center, arms crossed, head tilted slightly toward the map sprawled across the long oak table. The warleaders surrounded it in half-formed circles. Some sat. Most stood. None spoke with ease.
He didn’t know most of their names yet. Only faces. Posture. Tone.
"—if we send the fourth and seventh battalions north, we’ll cut ourselves off from the Vale," one of them said, voice low and sharp. "We lose supply lines, we lose the back door."
"We’ve already lost the back door," another replied. "You just didn’t notice."
"No one’s going north," Lindarion said.
A few turned toward him. Not all with agreement.
"I just came from the north," he continued, jaw tight. "You want to see what’s left of our city? Of our people? I’ll take you myself. You won’t be making plans when you get there. You’ll be digging graves."
One of the older warleaders, gray cloak, starlight pin at the collar, folded his hands across his belt.
"You’ve fought well," he said calmly. "But war isn’t just blood. It’s decisions. Careful ones."
Lindarion stepped closer to the table. "Then start making the right ones."
Someone scoffed softly to his right. A younger commander. Copper-blonde hair, armor too polished.
"Bold words for a prince who vanished for years and returned with a dragon and half a city on fire."
Lindarion didn’t flinch. "I didn’t vanish. I was forced out. And that dragon saved more lives than your scouts even found."
The room grew tenser.
Ashwing, perched quietly behind him in scaled-down form, let out a very small huff.
’Keep going,’ Lindarion thought. ’Don’t lose the thread.’
He tapped the map once, where it showed a red-ringed region marked as "Valein Pass."
"Mutants came through this ridge three days ago. Same type that overran Caldris. We don’t know how many. We don’t know where they’re regrouping. But I do know they’re coordinated. Trained. And they’re waiting for us to split our forces like idiots."
One of the warleaders leaned back. "You suggest we stay here and wait to be overrun?"
"I suggest we use time to our advantage. Gather intelligence. Build pressure instead of scattering it."
Someone muttered something about arrogance.
Lindarion ignored it.
He didn’t need to win all of them over.
The one called General Vaeryn, broad-shouldered, scar over the chin, finally spoke after watching silently.
Lindarion didn’t move. "I want to win."
Then the older general nodded slowly.
"Then start acting like you already have. Pick a team. Scouts. Mages. Blades. Put them together and tell me what you need by nightfall."
He didn’t wait for approval from the others.
He simply turned and walked out.
Lindarion exhaled slowly.
He didn’t let it show, but his hands had gone cold.
’They’re listening now,’ he thought. ’That’s enough for today.’
Ashwing hopped onto his shoulder in dragonling form, claws lightly tapping across the edge of his collar.
"Still want to punch the redhead with the too-shiny armor," the dragon muttered.
They stepped outside the war tent.
The sky was a pale silver—clouds stretched thin above the valley. The camp was still alive, but quieter now. Soldiers gathered in groups, blades strapped to backs, whispers drifting in and out of cook lines, watch stations, tents. Not peace.
He took it in slowly.
Every elf here looked like they’d been awake too long. Mages were recharging around faint crystal cores. Archers leaned against trees, some with bandaged hands. Healers moved tent to tent like ghosts with glowing palms.
All of it, balanced on a thread.
Ashwing nuzzled his neck gently. "You’re thinking too much."
"That’s all I ever do."
"Think less. Sleep once. Maybe scream into a pillow."
Lindarion smirked faintly.
He watched the sky another moment.
Somewhere in that storm of clouds, someone was watching back. He didn’t know where Luneth was. He didn’t know if his mother was still alive. Or what Dythrael’s next move would be.
But if he stood still too long, the whole war would decide itself without him.
And he wasn’t letting that happen.
The war table was quieter now. No shouting. No doubting. Just the low, purposeful scrape of charcoal on parchment and the rustle of maps being drawn, folded, marked again.
Lindarion leaned over the edge of the tent, arms braced on the table.
His hair was pulled back, messy, sweat-matted. There was blood on his sleeve he hadn’t had time to clean yet. Not his. That was the only reason he wasn’t worried.
"Four messengers," he said. "That’s what we’ll start with."
A younger officer, barely older than a recruit, hesitated with a quill. "All going to the same place, my lord?"
"No," Lindarion said, shaking his head. "Each to a different kingdom."
He glanced at the unfolded map, tapping his finger once on a northeast corner marked in fine green ink. "First to Lorienya. They’re kind people. Quiet, mostly. They’ll listen. Find Vaelthorne, Sylwen, or Orlan Ironbark if he’s still alive. They’ll be near the forest lines."
The officer nodded, making the note.
Lindarion’s eyes moved south.
"Second—Sylvarion. " His jaw shifted slightly. "Send someone who won’t react badly to cold shoulders. They’re... formal. Not warm."
The quill froze. The boy looked up.
"The dark elves?" he asked.
The tent felt just slightly colder.
Lindarion nodded once. "Zael and Selith sit at the edge of the Council of Thorns. They’ll deny the message before it’s even read. That’s fine. Let them. This isn’t a request—it’s a warning."
"Should we expect help?"
"No," Lindarion said plainly. "Just hope they stay out of the way."
The young officer didn’t ask more.
He scribbled the final notes and left the tent with quiet urgency.
Ashwing, still curled in miniature form beside the table leg, lifted his head.
"You trust them to answer?"
"No," Lindarion said. "But I trust them to care enough not to want this reaching them."
He moved to the flap of the tent, looking out.