The night air was cool and restless. Flickers of orange light from campfires swayed across the darkened field, casting long shadows that danced over the faces of soldiers. The metallic rasp of steel against stone echoed rhythmically — swords being sharpened, spears honed to cruel edges. The scent of smoke and oiled metal mixed with sweat and earth, the familiar perfume of an army awaiting war.
Men huddled in clusters, speaking in low, tense voices. Some laughed hollowly, forcing mirth into the gloom. Others stared silently into the flames, lost in thoughts of home or vengeance. Every so often, a horse snorted or pawed the ground, restless as their masters.
Inside the largest tent at the camp's heart, Khisa bent over a map illuminated by a single lantern. His commanders, Ole Samoei among them, lingered nearby, discussing terrain and routes.
The flap burst open suddenly. Ole Samoei entered, his breath heavy, dust clinging to his cloak.
