Jeremy Sinclair's POV
The war tent smelled of wet cloth, smoke from herbs being burned by the witches, and the stench smell of ancient blood. Nobody even noticed or maybe we were all just concentrated on our tasks.
A steady rain fell on the tent’s canvas, the sound of drops collaborating with the night to create an eerie chorus of whispers and shadows. Dozens of lanterns were lit near the table where battle plans and decisions were made, throwing a faint glow over maps that were slightly stained.
I was alone, standing at the middle of everything.
My hands lightly touched the wooden tabletop, studying the papers laid before me. The red markers covered a greater distance east than just one week prior, marking victories gained, camps destroyed, warriors vanquished.
But still I couldn’
