Chapter 510: Morning and Next Phase (4)
The war chamber of Fortress Eboncliff smelled of damp slate, lamp-oil, and the lingering copper tang of the night’s slaughter. Smoke from an overworked brazier curled against the rafters, painting lazy whorls that never quite escaped into the higher dark. Outside, the clang of scavenged armor being hammered straight drifted up the stairwells in ragged intervals, every ring a reminder that dawn was already old and the ruse had to be perfect before sunset.
Wilhelmina’s boots clicked in impatient staccato as she paced from chart-table to arrow-slit, counting under her breath. She paused only long enough to swipe a sleeve across the frosted glass, squinting at the gray courtyard below where sappers wrestled broken beams into something vaguely resembling a catapult. Soot streaked the curve of her cheekbone; chalk dust powdered the knuckles of the hand gripping her slate.
Lyan tracked her movements while pretending to study the room’s battered map. The parchment was blotched by spilled wine—Varzadian, judging by the purple stain—and dotted with quick black circles where Wilhelmina had calculated false barracks, extra signal fires, phantom latrines. A fortress lives in its small noises, she had told him once; if the scouts catch even one missing clatter, they know the garrison’s thin. He believed her.
"How long?" he asked, breaking the silence that vibrated like a bow string drawn just shy of release.
Wilhelmina blew out a careful breath, words ghosting in the cold. "Three days if we’re lucky. Two if the mist lifts too soon. Illusions drink focus like brandy. Alicia’s sorcery is subtle but brittle—Belle’s glamour can mask the cracks, yet even she will fray if the strain lasts."
Belle, kneeling by the fire pit to warm her fingers, lifted her chin. The flames danced gold across purplish-pink hair that refused to stay braided. "They’ll see exactly what we want them to see," she said, voice soft but edged. "Let them count ten thousand torches. Let them smell bread baking for nonexistent mouths."
Josephine lounged at the end of the long table, one armored leg propped on a toppled chair. Her gauntlet tapped a brisk tattoo against the thigh-plate, emerald eyes flicking between Wilhelmina’s grim calculation and Belle’s poised confidence. "And while they’re gawking at ghost armies," she purred, "my riders will whisper in every hedgerow from here to the river. A wagon overturned, a patrol vanished, a phantom banner glimpsed at dusk. By the time the serpent sends scouts for answers, we’ll be drinking their wine in the capital square."
Lyan’s gaze, traitorous, dipped to the curve of Josephine’s calf where steel gave way to leather and then to bare skin nicked by a fresh graze. Heat pricked behind his ears. He snapped his attention to the glaive leaning against the wall, silently cursing the part of him that kept cataloging thigh-luster when doom marched toward them.
(Caught again,) Lilith cooed, amused silk curling through his thoughts.
(Discipline, commander,) Cynthia sighed, though a smile colored the words.
Ignoring them, Lyan cleared his throat. "And your cavalry?"