You've been making friends

If one more syllable left that man's mouth, Malvoria was going to incinerate the chair he was sitting on.

"…and the rune in the northeastern outpost is fundamentally flawed. As I was saying—if we adjust the second arcane layer to include a triple-knot binding sigil, then—Your Majesty, are you listening? The entire flow of our reinforcement route is dependent on—"

Malvoria dragged a claw-tipped finger slowly across the edge of the stone table. Her grey eyes were narrowed, the light from the magical map casting a dull red glow across her face.

She hadn't blinked in over a minute. She was afraid if she did, she might lose what little patience remained in her bones.

Marshal Gorvek was a mountain of a man—not in height or muscle, but sheer width.

He was a war strategist who'd never set foot on a battlefield, preferring instead to eat, theorize, and speak at such unholy lengths it made her wish for spontaneous combustion.