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Jaheira traces troop movements on the map. "Here. Weak flank."
Z'rell leans close, shoulder to shoulder. "Agreed. We hit at moonrise."
Their eyes meet. Something shifts: rival to ally, then to something hungrier.
"I like your mind," Jaheira murmurs.
Z'rell smirks. "That all it is, Harper?"
The map scatters. Armor clinks to the floor. They collide against the war table, sharp edges, matching ferocity: two commanders finding an equal in the other.
Jaheira's breathless later. "Still think we can win?"
Z'rell tugs her back down. "Now I know it."
The candle burns low. They'll be back to the campaign soon.