“There is another way.” Sildur’s eyes sparkled. “We seek war instead of running from it like a frightened beast. We embrace it, and turn our bows and our blades toward their cities. The humans are like animals, and will learn only when struck.”

The three fell silent. Eravon put his hands upon the table and forced himself to keep calm. Sildur said nothing he had not heard a thousand times before over the last decade. Against that, he had the same tired argument, but no matter how tired, it remained truth.

“We might slay ten to our one,” he said. “But our numbers dwindle, while the humans spread like insects. We must not forget the lesson of the Bloodbrick, where our greatest died. Despite the thousands our casters killed, the humans have recovered, while we will never see those ten replaced in our lifetimes. No matter our skill, there is little we can do when they come with fire and pitch, outnumbering us over a hundred to one. You cannot stop a swarm of ants with an arrow or a blade. If we come as the aggressor, the King will send troops from every corner of Neldar.”

Sildur’s eyes flared wide, and he opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped. Eravon felt a chill pass over him, and he turned, following his companion’s gaze. A man was hunched at the door, his body covered with dark clothing and a long cape. A sword hung from his belt. Despite Eravon’s excellent vision at night, his eyes could not penetrate the deep shadow across the intruder’s face. Only his mouth and chin remained visible. He was smiling.

“Who are you?” Sildur asked, his hand subtly drifting to the long dagger at his hip. “Speak your name!”

The intruder let out a chuckle.

“I’ve heard many amusing names given to me, but if you insist, I will choose one of them for you. I am the Wraith.”

“Wraith,” said Sildur, hardly impressed. “What brings you here with your face masked and your identity hidden?”