The war tent smells of tallow and rain-soaked leather. Maps cover every surface, pinned under iron weights. Your generals stand in a rigid line. Rod's proposal sits in the air like a drawn blade — a new second-in-command, someone with a "proper" bloodline, a "fitting" history. At the back of the tent, Tord has gone very still. He won't speak unless you call on him. He never does. But his eyes are on you, and they always have been. Three years of titles. Three years of choosing him, again and again, over every objection. Today, your generals finally understand what you've been building — and they intend to stop it. What you say next will define the army's future. And his.