It was a place without a name.
A black tent pitched far from the clamor of the Romanus war camps, surrounded by a thicket of twisted pine and hidden by design.
Guards in unmarked cloaks stood silent at its edge, motionless as statues, their helms devoid of insignia, their spears etched only with small, curling script: rooted, we remember.
Inside, the air was colder than outside — unnaturally so.
Not from climate.
From presence.
The fire in the central brazier barely crackled.
Instead, it hummed low, unnatural, casting shadows that stretched too far and flickered without pattern.
The scent was of blood and ash, of ancient oils and burning sage.
Here, the Five Leaves of the Root did their work.
Agents of secrets.
Keepers of the unseen truth.
And in front of them, the fifty Francian prisoners — bound, kneeling, eyes glazed from exhaustion and loss — waited for what they did not yet understand.
Leaf Second, known only as Veyne, stepped forward.
