Barnaby slammed his wooden ladle against the porch railing so hard the dried pine shuddered.
“Ten elite late-stage fighters,” Barnaby growled, his lone arm knotting with ropey muscle as he turned toward the yard. “Orson didn’t hire street thugs this time—those are city enforcement veterans who chew Iron Bone cultivators for breakfast.”
Deacon Vane set his porcelain cup onto the low table with a soft click, his knuckles pale against the dark wood. “My courier said they ride swift-striders that cover thirty miles an hour without tiring. They will arrive at the mine gate before tomorrow afternoon.”
Beside the porch steps, Sera Thorne did not blink. She planted the butt of her spear into the packed earth and ran her thumb across the iron tip. Her gray eyes narrowed into cold calculation.
“Three choke points between the outer gate and the barracks,” Sera said, her voice flat and even. “If we fell two timber support beams, we can collapse the southern wagon ramp. That forces them into the narrow ditch where they can’t flank us.”
Linnea rushed forward, unrolling three sheets of drafting parchment across the cedar bench. Her fingers left smudges of cinnabar ink on the corners.
“I can mix eight jars of caustic blinding powder before dawn,” Linnea said, her voice climbing in pitch. “If we mount two heavy crank-ballistas on the north roof and link them with tripwires, we can shred their vanguards as they clear the threshold. We need to start cutting timber right now—why is…
