The night breeze blows through the camp, sending a chill through the Climont soldiers. Many huddle together, surrounding small fires for warmth.
Drake resides in his quarters, sitting at his table. He is hunched over, grabbing onto his hair as stress rolls through him.
“Milord,” Junet bows as she enters.
“What is it?” His expression is pale, exhaustion lining around his eyes.
“We have received word from the Vojik of the south. They will send a pack of wolves immediately.”
Relief washes over the Prince, “Thank the spirits. We’ll have enough men to take down the rebels, especially if they are already in Zaline.”
An image of Eliana appears in his mind. Concern tenses his muscles at the thought of her entering that ambush.
“When will the werewolves arrive?”
“They will be here in two day’s time,” Junet explains softly, remaining close to the exit.
“That is still far away. We must be ready for when they arrive.”