The air in the command tent was sharp with the scent of pine resin, curing leather, and the cold bite of steel. It was a world away from the stifling political air of the Great Hall. Here, at the Northern Ward—the very bastion I had nearly bled out defending—I was not a symbol, but a commander. My home was a canvas map spread over a rough-hewn table, my companions the grim-faced Betas who moved markers representing our warriors and the enemy.
The pain of the Regent’s Oath was a low, constant hum beneath my skin, a phantom limb aching with the wounds of every scout on patrol. It did not weaken me. It focused me. It was a constant, searing reminder of what was at stake.
For three days, we had held the line. The Dark Moon Cult’s initial probing attacks had been met with a ferocity that had
