The scraping of chair legs against the stone floor sounded like a challenge. Someone coughed into a fist, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet of the war room. Brek slid the chart back to the centre of the table, her thick, calloused fingers leaving faint, oily smudges on the vellum.
"Offers," I said. I kept my voice flat, letting the word hang in the air like a heavy curtain. "Give them the floor."
Seris began a rhythmic drumming of her fingernails against the wood. Click. Click. Click. She stopped abruptly, her hand flattening over the map. "What we provide is the hook. Foundation-tier recruits walk in blind. They don't need poetry or distant promises; they need something they can hold in their hands. Something actual."
"Actual like what?" Daven asked. His voice was a low rasp as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the scarred table.
