Devren covered his surprise with an unfriendly glance. “Six weeks, no more.”

“Six weeks of dwindling supplies and blades in the night. We’d wake one dawn to find half the Republic outside our tents! And for what? A squalid brawl against warriors driven to madness by starvation? What glory is there in that?”

“With the mountain passes secured, our supply lines are clear. And with the eastern reaches abandoned, our foragers can seize whatever else we require.”

Melanna stepped closer, careful not to look away. No weakness. Certainly not to a man like Devren, who’d married off his own daughters for dowry at barely respectable age. “Seize? You mean steal. My father has a mind to rule these people, warleader. Not destroy them.”

“A fine goal that will not be achieved through the whimsical fancies of a girl. Even one so noble and well-meaning as yourself, savim.”

A girl’s fancies. He couldn’t even acknowledge her as a woman. And as for “well-meaning” . . . The phrase fair dripped with scorn. Melanna’s temper rose to match warming cheeks. She fought it, recognising it to be unwise.

“I’ve spent six weeks here. I’ve walked Kreska’s streets. I’ve spoken with its people. I don’t speak with fancy, but with fact.”

“You’re too easily deceived.” He shrugged. “It’s no fault of your own. You lack judgement.”

The steed of Melanna’s temper threw off its harness and galloped loose. “And you lack . . .”

Her father’s irritated wave gestured her to silence. “Melanna. Enough.”

Cheeks stinging, she obeyed. “Yes, Father.”

“I will not have my daughter behave like a gutterling. Nor speak like one. Don’t give me cause to regret the liberties I’ve allowed you.”

The rebuke hurt more than Devren’s insults. That, and the reminder that her life was not her own, only what her father granted. “No, Father.”

Her father nodded and beckoned her over to the map. “And if not Kreska, then where?”

The answer came swiftly. “Eskavord.”

“Eskavord?” Devren snorted. “How deep into their territory would you have us march?”

She ignored him, as she should have done before. “Kreska is old. It’s a lair of priests who bow and scrape to Lumestra . . .”

“Astarra. You’ve been too long away,” muttered Devren. “Referring to the witch-goddess like one of those sun-worshipping heathens.”

“. . . it’s not where power rests. The Southshires are governed from Eskavord. Better still, the town’s walls are thin. And the region is infested with outlaws who dream of seeing their overlords humbled. Strike at Kreska, and you unite the Southshires against you. March on Eskavord, and the wolf’s-heads will stand with us.”

“And you’re sure of this?”

Melanna hesitated. “There’s no surety in war, Father. You taught me that. But Drakos Crovan is more honourable than he is not, and his people have much to gain in siding with us.”