Above the stunted mountain pines, the northern service path narrowed into a shelf of gray limestone where the wind off the high snowfields cut straight through wool cloaks. Ilyra led the climb at a steady, observant pace. That kept half a stride ahead of Hall Mistress Soran so she could turn her face back whenever the older woman needed to read her lips. Behind them came Masters Bren and Yul leading the pack mule. He was followed by Commander Keth Or and Chief Examiner Vaska Ren.
The seventh-dawn sun cleared the jagged eastern tooth of the range. Then, they stepped onto the broad stone terrace known in the old Balance and Aperture Court manuals as the Chamber of Permitted Shapes. Across the flat rock floor, earlier ages of stonecutters had chiseled shallow depressions in the exact outlines of kneeling human figures. Elbows tucked tight, spines bowed at a matching angle, palms flattened where volunteers had once been taught to hold a single approved stance until the mountain accepted their breath.
During the first northern march to rescue Halin, and again on the Twelfth Night before the assault, stepping across this terrace with even a quiet Coal breath flow had provoked an immediate, choking hum from the rock overhead. A cold classifying weight that demanded every living spirit vein conform to the carved hollows or be snapped flat. Today, under the full glare of the seventh sunrise, their iron-shod boots rang against the stone with no more deep ring than footsteps…
