The only sound left in the great tent was the faint crackling of dried dung burning in the fire pit.
The chief of the mounted herders had his forehead pressed to the felt mat. Sensing the heavy atmosphere within the tent, his tense back trembled.
He did not dare raise his head or move. Even his breathing was deliberately kept shallow, as though afraid his very presence might ignite something.
A dark patch of sweat spread across the felt mat, seeping outward from where his forehead rested.
In the silence.
Sulu's wine bowl slipped from his hand.
The bowl struck the felt mat with a dull thud.
Mare's milk wine spilled out, flowing along the patterns in the felt toward the fire pit. It stopped half a foot away, slowly absorbed by the felt fibers.
No one looked at the bowl.
Everyone was looking at the messenger. Beyond their shock was even greater helplessness, uncertainty about the future, and fear of how Touman would react next.
"You said..."
Touman spoke.
His voice was lower than usual, so low that everyone in the tent had to remain utterly silent to hear it clearly.
There was no furious outburst, no smashing of objects; he did not even raise his tone in the slightest.
The figure on the great wolfskin chair leaned forward slightly. Firelight struck his face from the side, leaving the half below his brow ridge flickering between light and shadow.
"The Left Great General's banner fell.
"Where is the Left Great General himself?"
The chief of the mounted herders ground his forehead against the felt mat.
"Didn't... didn't see him.
"I only saw the banner fall and the army collapse."
"How many Black-Armored Guards got out?"
"Couldn't see clearly.
"They were all over the grasslands.
"Some were running, some were