Rain hammers the green oilcloth of the field tent, a rhythmic drumming that drowns out the rustle of the northern grass. Owain Drust stands over the trestle, his spine aching from seven days of leaning over vellum. The survey is complete. His black-inked lines trace the jagged spine of the High Cairns with the cold, geometric precision the South Reach demands. He adjusts the heavy silver chain of office at his throat, the enamel seal cold against his linen collar, and exhales the scent of peat smoke and damp wool.
A shadow cuts through the warm amber glow of the storm-lantern. The tent flap doesn't just flutter; it is held aside with the steady intent of someone who has no interest in seeking permission. He smells her before he sees her—cold rain, crushed hawthorn, and the iron tang of a longsword’s scabbard. She is taller than the scouts said, her dark-red hair pinned back with silver, her eyes the colour of aged whiskey and twice as sharp.
She doesn't offer a greeting. She simply watches the way his hand hovers near the brass theodolite, noting the pale scar across his thumb. Her presence carries the weight of the country he just spent a week trying to claim with a pen. A gloved hand reaches into the lantern light, sliding a glass bottle of deep red ink onto the drafting table.
