Lara's sharp gaze swept across the dimly lit war tent, noting the twelve men huddled around a long, makeshift table. Their weathered faces, the weight of command etched into their features, left no doubt—they were the generals of the Northern army. A crude diorama of the Alta-Sierra mountain range sat at the center of the table.
The heavy canvas walls of the tent blocked out the late afternoon sun, leaving only the entrance to spill a thin stream of light into the oppressive space. The air was thick with tension, the scent of sweat and the odor of people who hadn't showered for days clinging to her nostrils.
Her gaze landed on a man with a commanding aura standing at the head of the table. His broad frame controlled the space without effort. He was studying the diorama with furrowed brows, the weight of unseen burdens pressing upon his shoulders.
She felt something tugged at her heart. Was it the familial bond of a daughter to a father?