The heavy oak gates swung shut with a deep, shuddering boom that rattled every iron bolt in the lintel.
From the inner wall, Noll Vey threw the two five-inch ash drop-bars into their forged iron brackets. The massive timber beams dropped into place with a pair of hollow, final thuds, cutting off the view of the switchback road where Captain Dorn’s single rear-guard sentry stood watching beneath the grey autumn sky.
Inside the vaulted Grand Hall, the silence that followed was suffocating.
A faint scent of boiled willow bark, crushed green stems, and raw mountain mud hung in the drafty corridor. On the threshold flagstone outside the wicket, three dark drops of Soldier Joss’s blood were slowly soaking into the pale lime wash—an indelible crimson stain left behind by Noll’s unprompted magic.
Beside the bread oven, Tessa Dene stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her wool apron was spattered with mud from the road, her knuckles white where her fingers dug into her sleeves. She had not put away her bread knife; the salvage blade swung bare in her right fist, its grease-blackened iron edge catching the dull light from the hearth.
She did not look at Sella Rusk, who was unbuckling her riveted shield with stiff, exhausted motions. She did not look at Fen, who was carefully wiping his iron shears with a scrap of clean linen at the washbasin, his youthful face pale and drawn. She did not look at junior clerk Cale, who had…
