Tessa did not strike the limestone flank.
She reached the threshold of the cramped stone chamber, took in the narrow corridor where Sella braced her boots against the whinstone baseboards, and spun on the ball of her foot. She sprinted back into the common hall, her patched apron fluttering, her bread knife held firmly in her fist.
“Hold it, Sella!” she called over her shoulder. “Five seconds!”
She crossed the hall with three long, flying strides, rounded the massive chimney pillar, and dropped to her knees beside Renn. The ditch-digger was trembling against Sergeant Berr’s iron greaves, his hands still fumbling with the rusted pin on his coat lapel.
“Keep still, Renn,” Tessa said softly.
With two swift, delicate flicks of her salvage blade, she severed the four coarse linen threads that bound the corners of the emblem to the wool. The steel slid under the stitches with a soft snip-snip-snip, leaving the old coat fabric entirely uncut. She snatched the faded red patch from the miner’s chest, leaving only a pale, unfaded square of grey wool beneath.
The cloth felt rough and greasy between her fingers, heavy with thirty winters of valley dirt, but the scarlet embroidery of the leaping fox stood out clear against the threadbare backing.
