The heavy iron door of the strategist’s quarters shut with a muted thud, sealing Nora off from the endless chatter of the Citadel’s outer corridors. Outside, the night air had turned crisp and sharp, smelling of cold mountain stone and pine resin. Inside, only a single sconce burned, casting long, dancing shadows across the massive oak desk covered in parchment, boundary maps, and supply routes.
Nora dropped her leather satchel onto the floor and leaned against the edge of the table, letting out a breath she felt like she had been holding since dusk.
Her mind was still spinning with troop allocations and border surveillance, but beneath the logistics, a persistent tension thrummed in her chest. The King’s Council meeting earlier had been a field of hidden daggers. Lord Malakor had openly
