The war room had finally emptied. Maps were rolled up, orders dispatched, and the scent of iron and ink still clung to the air.
Sasha stood by the tall windows, one hand braced against the cold stone frame, eyes locked on the distant line where the forest met the sky. His mind had quieted, calculations made, pieces moving.
He was about to ask Roland for the next rotation schedule when a knock came at the outer doors, two knocks, evenly spaced.
The steward entered with the confidence of a warrior, his posture a blade's edge of precision. He had once served as the Crown Prince's high steward in another life, in another court, back when Sasha still had a title that meant something on paper. He'd followed Sasha into exile without question, bringing his sons and silence with him.
Now he bowed, not out of habit but out of respect.
"My lord," he said, his voice low but clear. "Forgive the interruption."
Sasha turned from the window slowly. "Speak."
