The messenger was long gone, but the weight of his arrival still lingered. Lucian stood near the entrance of the tent, staring out at the darkened camp. His fingers tapped idly against his belt, his mind undoubtedly still turning over the same thoughts.
I stepped beside him, following his gaze to the rows of flickering torches and the shifting silhouettes of soldiers moving between them.
"You don't think the letter will be enough, do you?"
Lucian exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening.
"No. My father values action over words." His voice was quiet, but firm. "If he believes I have failed my duty, he will not wait for a response."
A cold prickle ran down my spine. "Then we should prepare for that possibility."
Lucian's lips pressed into a thin line, and I knew he had already considered it. He turned toward me, his eyes sharp.
"If my father sends an envoy, or worse an army, Praylor will no longer be a distant threat. It will be standing at our doorstep."
