The wind off the eastern desert tasted of chalk and old stone.
Ren stood at the window of the command chamber with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the pale light of early morning slide across Zhū'kethara's rooftops. The city was waking — forge smoke rising in thin columns, the distant clatter of a supply cart on the lower road — but his mind was already in the mountains. Had been for days.
Voresh arrived without announcement. He didn't knock. He never did when the report was bad.
"My king."
Ren turned. Voresh stood in the doorway with his copper eyes, carrying the particular warmth they'd developed over recent months — tarnished metal slowly remembering how to catch light. His Vor'kesh bore six strands at his throat, the sixth still young, still thickening. He was dressed for travel.
"The Zel'kethari assessment," Ren said.
"I was given a week. That was some time ago."
"And?"
