The fire inside the war tent cast long shadows across Rhett's face, slicing it into half light, half storm. Around him, the chosen few shifted on their feet, their expressions a mix of dread and defiance. These were not elders. These were not politicians. These were warriors who'd bled for their lands, and some who had bled for Rhett.
He didn't wait for permission to speak.
"The elders stall. They circle their tongues around fear like wolves too old to hunt. We can't afford their hesitation."
A murmur ran through the tent. Magnus folded his arms across his chest. He was older, scarred, the kind of man who earned silence by walking into it.
"So what's your play, Rhett? You want us to gut our kin? March through our own bloodlines?"
Rhett's jaw clenched. He wore the burden of command too tightly now, and it showed in the way his voice strained to stay low.
"I want to survive. I want us to survive. And if our kin stand in the way of that, then yes, Magnus, we bleed them."
