The documents remained on the desk in his office, the quill beside it. Both sat farther from his reach tonight than they had on any evening he could easily remember.
The march would begin in three days, and enough could still go wrong that he could have spent the entire night checking numbers again. But another hour over the accounts would solve nothing he had not already solved. What he needed now was sleep. Real sleep. The kind he chose instead of the kind that claimed him after his forehead found the desk sometime past four in the morning.
Discipline before a campaign meant more than drilled formations and counted supplies. A commander who started a march exhausted made poorer decisions by the third day than one who began rested. He had learned that lesson often enough to know exactly what fatigue cost. If he wanted the army to have its best chance, he needed to trust the work already done.
Tonight, for once, he intended to do exactly that.
