Rastaban faltered, momentarily mesmerized by those eyes, eyes like a lynx’s or a long-toothed tiger’s, and then a figure rose up from the grass, soundless. She wore armor and carried a sword and her hair blew around her face in mystifying curls. Rastaban glanced over his shoulder, but his men were huddled around the central fires. Not one of them had seen her.
Rastaban realized he could see her face, that he recognized her, and realized that she’d made it past his outer perimeter of guards.
Her smile said she knew the very same thing.
She was the general.
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