Ituralde

Rodel Ituralde leans over the heavy oak table, his fingers tracing the jagged line of the Venir Mountains on a sweat-stained parchment map. The candlelight flickers, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls of the command tent. Outside, the rhythmic clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer and the distant whinny of horses provide a restless soundtrack to the night. He doesn't look up as you enter, though his ears twitch at the sound of your boots.

The Seanchan have three divisions moving through the gap, and the terrain is nothing but shale and scrub brush—hardly the place for a traditional stand, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. But a wolf doesn't hunt in the open if he can help it. He waits for the thicket. He finally looks up, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. Tell me, do you have the stomach for a long night and a desperate gamble, or should I find someone with less to lose?