Melisa sat beside Sirah in the war tent, trying to look interested while various darian leaders argued about supply routes like they were discussing the weather. Her ass hurt from the wooden bench, and she kept shifting, which made Sirah's hand tighten on her thigh like a fucking vise.
[Just smile and nod. Smile and nod. Pretend this is fascinating.]
The tent was packed with muscle-bound killers, all of them gesturing at maps and talking strategy. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and barely contained violence. Melisa felt like a sheep at a wolf convention.
"The eastern route is too exposed," a gray-bearded warrior said, jabbing at a map with one thick finger. "We should—"
"Warchief Gorath!" A guard burst through the tent flaps like his ass was on fire. "We captured a Syux soldier yesterday. Thought you'd want to see her."
Gorath, apparently the big boss around here, waved him in with the casual air of someone used to interruptions.
"Bring the prisoner."
