The cold that came out of the unfolded portal was not the simple winter freeze of the high mountain passes.
It was an institutional cold, smelling of unheated record vaults, dry parchment dust, old wax seals, and the bitter copper grease of four hundred field wagons stalled in the mud. It moved across the limestone flags of the Hall of Witness like a creeping tide of grey brine, coating the edges of the fallen shale blocks in a fur of needle-ice.
Beside Noll Vey, Tessa Dene’s breath formed a dense plume in the gloom. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the hilt of her bread knife, but her boots never shifted an inch from the chalked circle.
“It came three hours early, Noll,” she whispered, her teeth clicking together once before she pressed her lips tight. “The schedule on the arch had three hours of grace remaining at midday. The cannon shell broke the clock.”
“The shell broke the masonry,” Noll said, his granite jaw grinding with a dry rasp. “The eight thousand men out on the slope broke the clock. When the mortar fired, every conscript in the valley looked at the smoke and believed the monster was waking. In this ledger, belief is an advance on debt. They paid the balance in terror before the sun could turn.”
