“We are losing this war!”

  The fury of Leonus’s words rain spittle upon the weathered maps of the continent as a piercing ring of metal impacting stone echoes out through the vast council room. Three other generals watch a steel helmet bounce across the floor with unimpressed gazes, having gathered once more around an ancient oak table in the war room of Goldenfield Keep. Battle sites and troop movements are marked with intricate carvings of silver while bejeweled goblets and masterful tapestries decorate the room, the dignified air marred by the unbecoming tantrum.

  Carnus let out a deep weary sigh, he was tired of his colleague’s temper, tired of the pointless meetings, and tired of the entire damnable war. He wanted nothing more than to be home beside a crackling fireplace, one arm around his loving wife and another holding a tankard of Birkshire ale while the two watched the first steps of their newborn son. Instead they were arguing over the latest in a long line of losses they had endured ever since the Skypeaks bastards had allied with the Emberforge dwarves. Their soldiers were felled like stalks of wheat harvested by the influx of masterwork steel blades, losing all but the most defensible positions.

  Generations of resources and blood spilled for mines that could not possibly make up for the cost.

  “Leonus, must we dance this tune every time we meet? Your outbursts add nothing to our meetings.” Jaxis’s smooth baritone fills the room as the levelheaded man attempts to bring the meeting back on track. The old half-minotaur had been a general for longer than the rest of them had been alive and without his steadying presence Carnus feared these discussions would never progress. Yet even the wizened man was beginning to fray from the steadily rising death toll of their soldiers, his recent strategies holding a rare shadow of doubt within them.

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  Their youngest general Zerith was especially impacted by the losses, the elven man frequently found drowning himself in ale while bemoaning the hopelessness of the war. Rumours of his very public displays were having a significant impact on the army’s morale.

  It seems Leonus had finished his bellyaching as he huffed in agitation, but bit back on the rest of his anger. Instead he stomped forward toward the table, jamming his thick and calloused finger into a point on the map nestled deep in the southern mountains.

  “Dragonforge Pass. If the bird fuckers have gotten new weapons then we’ll need some of our own. Good ones, not the pitted iron farming tools and kitchen knives our pathetic excuses for smiths turn out.” He ground out with a snarl.

  And a battalion of archmages and a tamed dragon if we’re voicing impossible dreams now.

  “And how do you propose we pay for them? Even if we had control of the mithril mines we’d struggle to afford outfitting an army with their steel.” Carnus derided, however, with a hint of curiosity. For all the things he could call Leonus a fool was not one of them.

  “By saving them from the terrible invasion of Skypeaks soldiers who attempted to sack the city out of greed. Our friend Olbricht was the only surviving elder and in his gratitude gifted us with a generous deal and treasure trove of equipment.” Leonus explains with a mock expression of grief plastered on his face.

  It took but a moment for Carnus to understand, the proposal crawling along his skin and twisting his insides.

  Are we truly so desperate?

  The bitter resignation shadowing the faces present was all the answer he needed.