The command tent smelled of old canvas, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, metallic tang of anxiety.
A large tactical map of the Deadlands was spread across a makeshift table of rusted oil drums and plywood. Red wooden blocks, representing Kael’s cyborg army, surrounded the massive black obsidian stone in the center that marked the Spire. The blue blocks—our forces—looked pathetic in comparison. A tiny handful of wolves against a mountain of machines.
I stood at the edge of the map, staring at the red blocks. But honestly, I wasn't thinking about war strategy.
I was thinking about peanut butter.
My stomach let out a loud, embarrassing rumble that sounded like a dying engine.
I frowned, rubbing my belly. I had eaten a full bowl of Magda’s dreadful, bland oatmeal and pickle just an h
