The command pavilion of the Third and Fifth Royal Border Regiments smelled of wet canvas, burning charcoal, and scorched paper. Outside, the freezing slush of the valley road was churned into grey ruts by baggage caissons and the boots of eight thousand shivering soldiers.
Captain Arda Dorn stood with her gauntlets tucked beneath her left arm, her broad shoulders squared under the heavy wool of her captain’s mantle. Her breath came in short, frosty puffs in the unheated corners of the tent. Across the wide oak campaign table, Lord Auditor Orin Vane stood silhouetted against an iron brazier, feeding sheets of plain rag paper into the glowing coals one by one.
The ink on the burning sheets had been copied by hand in the fortress above: two hundred identical notices distributed through the frozen lanes of Mere and pressed into the hands of the river pickets before noon.
“Treasonous rubbish,” Vane murmured, his thin, immaculate fingers dropping another invitation onto the red charcoal. The paper curled, blackened, and flared with yellow flame. “The frantic gibberish of a trapped conjurer trying to save his neck. A ritual of dungeon enthrallment disguised as an ancient municipal court. Any man caught holding this filth will be arrested for sedition and stripped of his rank.”
