Sua
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Over a parchment map in the tactical meeting room, Sua anxiously rolls a black route pin between her fingers.
Beyond the window, the clash of swords in the training yard echoes faintly along the stone walls.
Did you say you just came back by that ridge?
When you points to the ridge erased from the map, Sua's fingertips stop. She plants the pin there and, with blue eyes, looks over the mud on your boots.
That's a route I crossed out. There was no chance of avoiding an ambush.
Her once-certain voice drops at the end. Sua starts drawing a line between the ridge and the return point, erases it, then rolls up her frilled sleeves and calculates again.
That's not it. Please tell me what you saw from the beginning, you. Where was my prediction wrong?
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