Chapter 509: Children of Flesh and Shade (2)
Someone—probably Arnold’s tireless quartermasters—had dragged the wreck of a stargazer’s worktable into the room’s center. Its once-polished mahogany edges were now splintered charcoal, but the surface held firm under layers of charcoal maps, broken sigil lenses, and scrolls sealed in cracked red wax. An empty seat waited at the table’s far side, its backrest scorched but upright—almost expectant.
Erich leaned over a slender decanter of dark wine, hair still clotted with grey ash. He wore yesterday’s tunic, torn at one sleeve, and a smile that looked too casual for a man who’d tasted two hours of sleep. When he tipped the decanter, the stream wobbled, splashing crimson droplets onto a province-wide map of Varzadia. The ink bled. He didn’t notice.
Arnold sat half-perched on a corner of the table, boots dangling, methodically tearing strips from a slab of dried venison and placing them beside him—one for himself, one for any hungry soul who wandered past. He looked like a bear camped outside a beehive: dangerous, vaguely amused, and sticky with someone else’s blood that no one had bothered to wipe from his vambraces.
Wilhelmina arrived just before Lyan, her stride taut with caged thunder. A thin white bandage looped under one pauldron where an arrow had glanced the previous night. She stood with arms folded, hair twisted tight in her war-knot, nodding at every logistics note but agreeing aloud with none. Every so often she cocked her head, listening for fresh reports from the runners scurrying up the tower stair.
Surena prowled the chamber’s edge like a lone wolf forced to share a den—eyes sharp, lips tight, checking casualty reports as scribes hurried in with fresh ink. She seldom spoke, only tapped numbers into an abacus with a muted click while her gaze drifted across the horizon through the shattered star-vault windows, weighing threats still hidden in the rubble below.
Josephine was the first to spot Lyan. She lifted two fingers in a lazy salute and kicked a chair back with her heel. "You’re late," she crowed, her grin too bright for the dim room. "Did the wind write you a poem on the climb, or are you just slow today?"
"No poem," Lyan answered, sliding into the seat. He tried not to wince when wood scraped a bruise on his ribs. "But it did critique my fashion sense, quite viciously."
A ripple of low laughter moved around the makeshift council. Even Wilhelmina’s stoic mouth twitched.
Arnold barked a deeper laugh, slapping his thigh hard enough to jingle mail rings. "You still wearing that butchered cloak? Ten thousand gold to whoever retrieves the King’s upper jaw from that throne gear," he added, half to himself. "I want to mount it over my hearth."