Dawn did not break over the ruined hill fort with fanfare; it arrived as a slow, cold grey seepage that turned the frost on the parapet into greasy slush.
Inside the Grand Hall, the night watch rota had held its quiet vigil. Sergeant Berr sat motionless on the low bench by the western dormitory arch, his tarnished iron mail resting against the lime-washed wall like a suit of empty armor, while Edren Dene slept lightly with his grey head tilted against the sergeant’s shoulder. Near the doorway, a small oil lantern cast a circle of warm amber across the threshold, and in the berths beyond, the rhythmic breathing of twelve sleeping miners rose and fell in uninterrupted peace.
None of the doors had been barred from the outside. None of the iron latches had been chained. The twelve men who had been dragged out of Vane’s chorus drift had slept with their boots off and their doors unlocked, free to walk down the hill road toward Mere at any hour of the night if their courage failed them.
Not a single man had left.
High in the western masonry, Noll Vey felt a sudden, deep tremor that did not come from a miner’s pick or the rumble of a valley wagon.
