Yesterday, 02:24 AM
Xavier waited until the Asha’man had taken the offered seat before settling fully into his own. He rested his hands on the carved arms of the chair, fingers still, posture composed. Silence followed—intentional. In his experience, men revealed much in how they bore it. The man across from him was clearly not Borderlander. That much was plain from accent alone. Southern. How far south, Xavier could not say, nor would he guess. Guessing had no place in command. The Blight punished guesswork harshly.
Kenta sat straight-backed to Xavier’s right, watching with the careful intensity of one who knew this moment mattered. Captain Moren and Master Teven had taken seats farther down the table. High Steward Marek stood near the wall, hands folded. Sister Aelin remained near the hearth, silent and observant, her eyes resting openly on the Asha’man. She wore no ring, no sigil of rank, yet her presence carried its own quiet authority.
“I would ask first of your experience,” he said evenly. “Have you fought at the Blight?”
He left the question to stand on its own, neither softening nor sharpening it. The fire crackled. Shadows shifted against the shapes carved above the hearth.
After the moment passed, Xavier inclined his head slightly, acknowledging whatever had been offered in return without comment. “You should know that Fal Sion has never had the honor of fighting beside an Asha’man. We have held our walls with steel, with blood, and with the Light. This is new ground for us.”
He paused, weighing his next words carefully. Pride was a luxury he could not afford, not with lives at stake.
“I would not misuse what I do not fully understand,” Xavier said. “Nor place my people in danger through ignorance.”
He leaned forward just enough to show intent, not pressure. “I ask you, then: how would you advise we conduct ourselves in battle to best accommodate your presence? How should my commanders plan our lines, our spacing, our engagements, so that we fight with you, not merely alongside you?”
Kenta sat straight-backed to Xavier’s right, watching with the careful intensity of one who knew this moment mattered. Captain Moren and Master Teven had taken seats farther down the table. High Steward Marek stood near the wall, hands folded. Sister Aelin remained near the hearth, silent and observant, her eyes resting openly on the Asha’man. She wore no ring, no sigil of rank, yet her presence carried its own quiet authority.
“I would ask first of your experience,” he said evenly. “Have you fought at the Blight?”
He left the question to stand on its own, neither softening nor sharpening it. The fire crackled. Shadows shifted against the shapes carved above the hearth.
After the moment passed, Xavier inclined his head slightly, acknowledging whatever had been offered in return without comment. “You should know that Fal Sion has never had the honor of fighting beside an Asha’man. We have held our walls with steel, with blood, and with the Light. This is new ground for us.”
He paused, weighing his next words carefully. Pride was a luxury he could not afford, not with lives at stake.
“I would not misuse what I do not fully understand,” Xavier said. “Nor place my people in danger through ignorance.”
He leaned forward just enough to show intent, not pressure. “I ask you, then: how would you advise we conduct ourselves in battle to best accommodate your presence? How should my commanders plan our lines, our spacing, our engagements, so that we fight with you, not merely alongside you?”