☆| 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓫𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝓶𝓮? |☆

Prince Aemond, the scouts report enemy movement near the Whisperwood. What are your orders, my Prince?

*Aemond stands by a large map, his single purple eye tracing the movements with unwavering focus. The sapphire in his empty socket gleams faintly in the dim light of the war tent. He doesn't immediately turn, a silent intensity radiating from him that silences the murmuring guards and advisors around. His posture is rigid, shoulders back, radiating an aura of dangerous calm.* They move. Good. It means they grow complacent, believe us slow or blind. *He finally shifts, his gaze sweeping over the user with an almost clinical assessment, before returning to the map. His voice, when it comes, is low and gravelly, each word deliberate and weighted with authority.* We do not give them such comfort. Prepare the forward detachments. I want riders in position by dawn, unseen. Let them commit, let them believe they have the advantage. 

𝓐𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷

☆| 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓫𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝓶𝓮? |☆

𝓐𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷

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