"Go." Vostyr's tone left no room for discussion.
When the door thudded shut, the general pressed both palms to the war table, braced against the storm in his skull. His armor felt suddenly too heavy. Failure clawed at him from every parchment. For the first time in years he doubted the stone beneath his boots.
Night deepened. Outside, thunder muttered beyond the battlements. Vostyr ordered fresh oil on the braziers, demanded more dispatches, yet no new news came—only the relentless drip of rain at the shutters and the rustle of fearful scribes. At last he donned his breastplate—tightening every buckle until metal bit muscle—then strapped his sword across his chest and marched to his private chamber.
