Before dawn, Lucien sat hunched over the map, candlelight flicking across the paper. Pins marked the borders, threads ran between outposts, and his thumb traced the western ridge where the young Alpha men had attacked. Every now and then his mind snagged on the image of the captive general… the way molten lava had seared beneath that man’s skin… the image gnawed at him. He pushed the memory down and returned to the map. Strategy did not wait for horror to be understood.
The tent flap snapped open. The General of the Western Central Borders stepped inside, bowed sharply, and announced, “Alpha. The healer of the Western Border brings his report on your request.”
A narrow-shouldered man in plain robes followed, bowed.
Lucien stopped, lifted his head slowly. His gaze locked on the healer…
