The midwinter sun was pale in the sky, its light barely cutting through the chill that had settled over Winter's Crown. Inside the war room, the fire burned low, casting flickering shadows over the maps and documents spread across the table. Damien stood at the head of the room, his steel-gray eyes scanning the reports that Carys had brought in from the southern territories.
"The bandits are crippled, but they're not finished," she said, her green eyes sharp as she tapped the map. "We've identified at least two more camps across the border, likely feeding supplies to smaller groups in the kingdom."
Amara leaned against the wall, her sharp blue eyes glinting. "And let me guess—those camps aren't going to dismantle themselves."
Damien nodded, his jaw tightening. "The border's instability is deliberate. Someone wants to keep us distracted, to bleed us dry while the kingdom is still fragile. The question is: who?"