The air in the war camp was electric, crackling with tension and anticipation. Even the wind seemed to pause, carrying the weight of every unsaid word, every hidden fear. Scouts had returned at dawn, dirt-streaked and breathless, bringing grim news: Ronan's army had advanced. Not just rogues, but packs he'd manipulated or coerced, all marching under his command. War was no longer a distant threat. It was here.
Aria stood in the command tent with Kael, Lysandra, and the rest of the high council. Her fingers hovered over the map spread before them, marked with urgent red ink and frayed at the edges from constant use.
"He's moving faster than we thought," Kael said, voice low but sharp. "If we wait too long, he'll box us in from three sides. Jonah's intel was right—Ronan wants us surrounded and gasping before the final blow."
Aria didn't flinch. "Then we don't wait. We move now."
Lysandra raised a brow. "And risk falling into his trap?"
