The granite piers of the northern stone bridge shuddered under the rhythm of distant iron boots.
Crouched beneath the shadow of the southern bridgehead arch, Sera Thorne kept one hand flat against the cold stone. The vibrations came fast and erratic. Five hundred men were running at a breakneck sprint through the midnight dark.
Beside her, Mina Vance knelt on a wool blanket. Her breath formed faint silver crystals in the damp river air.
“They are two miles away,” Mina whispered, keeping her voice lower than the rushing water below. “The road dust smells like burning copper.”
Sera glanced behind them along the riverbank.
Six hundred prefecture guards were deployed in three concealed lines among the willow thickets. Every man wore thick felt wraps over his iron boots. Their repeating crossbows were fitted with oiled sheepskin mufflers.
Not a single torch was lit. Not a single pennant fluttered in the chill wind.
“Remember the rule,” Sera murmured to the squad captains crouched nearby. “Zero battle cries. Zero shouts. If a wounded man screams, gag him with his own scarf. Master Vance is sleeping.”
