The upper armory corridor was significantly colder than the council chamber, the drafts from the western battlements whistling through the narrow gun-slits and carrying the faint, metallic scent of wet grindstones and old iron.

Nila walked slowly, her wool skirt gathered tightly in one hand as she navigated the narrow stone steps leading down to the vanguard staging area. Kaelen had stayed behind in the great hall to ensure Trevor’s clerks actually moved the timber tokens into the correct storage cubbies, leaving her alone with the heavy stack of slates under her arm.

Marcus was there, standing by the long oil-trough where the vanguard squad leaders dipped their winter pike-heads....