The war council chamber reeked of old blood and older stone. I stood at the edge of the room, watching my son—six years old by any reasonable count, yet standing tall enough to meet grown warriors eye-to-eye—lean over the strategy table like he'd been born to command it.
"You're leaving the eastern ridge exposed." Lucian's voice had dropped months ago, settling into something deeper than it should be, carrying an authority that made seasoned soldiers straighten their spines. "If I were planning an assault, I'd send a small force through the Silverpeak Pass as distraction while the real attack came through here."
His finger—long, elegant, nothing like the pudgy hands of a six-year-old—traced a route through terrain most of Ronan's warriors hadn't even considered.
Gareth, Ronan's grizzled Beta, stared at the map. Then at my son. Then back at the map. "The boy—"
