The glow of the setting sun bathed Winter's Crown in shades of orange and gold, but the warmth did little to ease the tension gripping the city. In the wake of the ambush at the docks and the dismantling of another rebel safehouse, Damien found himself staring at the reports in the palace war room, his steel-gray eyes scanning every word for the threads he knew were there.
The rebels' movements were not random; they were precise, deliberate. Every action, every shipment, every safehouse served a purpose. And yet, the bigger picture still eluded him.
Amara leaned against the edge of the table, her sharp blue eyes fixed on him. "You're brooding again," she said, her tone light but edged with concern.
Damien didn't look up. "I'm thinking."
"You've been thinking for hours," Amara countered. "The rebels are scattered, their supplies are gone, and we've captured half their leadership. That's a win, Damien. Take it."
