Dreadful News After Dreadful News

The atmosphere inside the deerskin tent was so heavy it was almost suffocating.

Kaustov sat upright on a tree stump used as a chair, his face dark as a storm cloud. His fingers absently drifted toward the dagger at his waist.

Snellman paced incessantly around the tent, the most restless of the three. Fine beads of sweat had formed at his temples, and unconcealed anxiety showed in his eyes.

Casimir sat with his brow furrowed, silent, his gaze fixed on the ground as if trying to see through the thick felt carpet.

What had left the three kings in such a predicament was not the explosive barrels that had appeared at random during the night for days on end.

Though the barrels appeared like ghosts, exploding with a deafening bang and leaving behind charred craters and soldiers' cries of pain, they were nothing compared to the other dreadful news.

The news had come from a man who had fled south.

Baron Trins had lost his left hand in the ambush that night. His wound had been crudely bandaged, but blood still seeped through, staining his sleeve.

He had survived by pretending to be dead, curled up among the bodies as he listened to the enemy's searching footsteps fade away. Every second had felt like an eternity.

His mind was still clear. He knew that if Kaustov investigated the matter later, he and the other noble commanders would all be held responsible.

So he had endured the pain and hurried south to report, eager to shift all blame away from himself. He had even rehearsed his excuses over and over, making sure every word was airtight.

The fortress was lost. The fleet was lost. The supplies were gone. Everything was gone.

The news struck everyone's heart like an icicle and was