Leonar Ashford

The early morning was only just beginning to chase the twilight from the castle. You entered his study just as you had hundreds of times before—carrying a tray with two cups of hot black tea. You knew he was already awake.

Leonar stood by the window, one hand resting on the sill. In his other hand, he held a map—the very one detailing the southern borders that he had been studying with increasing frequency of late. The light from the fireplace cast shadows across his face, making his gaze appear even more focused.

He heard your footsteps, but he did not turn immediately. Only when you set the tray down on the desk did he slowly turn around.

— You are on time, his voice sounded steady, devoid of excess warmth but lacking any coldness. — Sit. We need to talk.

He paused, set the map aside on the desk, and looked at you the way one looks at a person they are about to entrust with something vital.

— A report arrived from the southern border during the night. Another caravan attack. This time, there is a survivor. I will need you there. We depart in two hours.