The dawn over Val-Roc rose cold, clear, and sharp as broken glass.
Aurelia stood by the arched arrow slit of the ducal solar, wrapped in a thick mantle of charcoal wool trimmed with black fox fur. Below the high citadel, the vast encampment had transformed into an orderly engine of war. Five thousand spearmen moved in disciplined cohorts across the frozen drill yards, their newly greased mail rattling in cadence as their centurions barked orders through the morning mist.
Beside her, Malakor was buckling the heavy iron plates of his rerebraces.
His skin was warm, flushed with the raw vigor of sovereign blood that seemed impervious to the bitter mountain drafts. The scars across his broad shoulders caught the pale morning light, each one a testament to an empire he had bled to break. He stepped up behind her, his large hands settling firmly onto her hips, his chest pressing flush against her back.
"Kaelen’s riders crossed the northern pass before third bell," Malakor murmured near her ear, his deep voice sending a familiar, pleasant shiver through her marrow. "The four remaining wagons from Oak haven will be behind these walls before sunset tomorrow."
Aurelia leaned back against him, letting her head rest against the hard curve of his collarbone. "And the High Inquisitor?"
"Still marching south toward the Sunken Spire," Malakor replied, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive arc over the wool at her waist. "He believes the northern anomaly swallowed our bones. By the time his couriers find him in the southern marshes to deliver news of Oak haven's fall, our spears will be camped on the banks of the Red River."
A knock echoed through the heavy oak door of the solar—two measured, iron-shod raps.
"Enter," Malakor commanded, without releasing his hold on her waist.
General Kaelen pushed the heavy timber door open. The veteran’s beard was rimmed with white frost, and his gray eyes flicked briefly toward the pair before settling into the stony, respectful discipline of an old soldier. Under his arm, he carried a heavy roll of vellum bound in brass rings.
"The captains are assembled in the lower vault, Lord Malakor," Kaelen reported, coming to a halt five paces into the chamber. "The siege train is ready for inspection. We have thirty stone-throwers, four battering rams plated in boiled ox-hide, and eight hundred draught oxen requisitioned from the western estates."
"What of the road to the Red River?" Aurelia asked, turning within Malakor’s arm to face the general.
Kaelen unrolled the vellum map across the broad walnut table in the center of the solar, weighing the edges down with iron spurs.
"The River Crossing at Bridge-of-Ashes is held by the Baron of Mor-Venn," Kaelen explained, tapping a point along the ink-drawn gorge where the Red River cut through the southern lowlands. "He commands six hundred heavy cavalry—the White Lancers. Staunch allies of the Solar Concord. He has fortified both bridgeheads with timber redoubts and iron chain-booms."
"Mor-Venn is a coward who buys his victories with gold," Malakor said, stepping away from the window to loom over the map. His amber eyes hardened as they tracked the red ink marking the bridgeheads. "He will not fight if his line of retreat is severed."
"He won't need to retreat," Aurelia said quietly, stepping to Malakor's side. She placed her fingertip upon a narrow, winding line that skirted the eastern side of the gorge through the Razor Crags. "There is a goat path through the limestone flumes. It leads behind the northern redoubt. If a detachment of thirty scouts can cross by night, we can drop the chain-boom and open the gates from the inside."
Kaelen looked up from the parchment, his brows furrowing in surprise. "The flumes are submerged during the autumn rains, my lady. No horse can cross that gorge."
"We will not bring horses," Aurelia replied, her dark eyes flashing with pale silver light. "I will take thirty volunteers on foot. While Malakor feigns a frontal assault with the vanguard across the main causeway, my blades will take the winch tower."
Malakor turned to look at her, his jaw clenching with dark, immediate resistance. "You do not walk into an enemy redoubt alone, Aurelia."
"I will not be alone," she countered, meeting his fierce gaze with unblinking resolve, her chin lifting. "I will have thirty of Kaelen's veterans, and I have the Veil. You said it yourself, Malakor: if we want the empire, we must strike before the Inquisitor realizes his rear is exposed. We cannot waste three days trying to batter down the Bridge-of-Ashes with catapults."
Malakor stared at her for a long, silent heartbeat, the tension between them coiling like a loaded crossbow. He reached out, his calloused fingers catching her chin, tilting her face up toward his in plain view of the general.
"If you are late by ten breaths at that winch tower," Malakor growled softly, his voice thick with a dark promise that brooked no argument, "I will tear down the redoubt with my bare hands and butcher every living soul inside."
A slow, wicked smile touched Aurelia’s lips. "Then you had best bring your sharpest steel, my Lord. Because I do not intend to wait for you."