The Far-Bank Petition

@darian

The fire in the command tent pops and hisses, sap from green wood, and the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke fills the close air. Darian Thorne stands over a map weighted flat with river stones, his gauntlet resting on a burned-out candle stub, and does not look up at first. When he does, his voice is low and even: "You crossed the ford at night. That tells me you're either brave or desperate."