An iron measuring compass spun across the linen rubbings, its bronze tips scratching the charcoal ink.
Inside the central command pavilion of White-Lotus Valley, Princess Valeria leaned over the war table.
Beside her stood Elder Sterling, his glossy steel-black hair tied back with a leather cord, and Deacon Vane, whose ivory abacus rested quietly against his ledger.
Sera Thorne stood nearby, her arms crossed over the leather cuirass of her armor, her amber eyes fixed on the drawings.
Barnaby Holt stood at the far corner of the table, holding an oil lamp in his right hand to cast warm light across the charcoal sketches.
Spread out across the table were five large charcoal rubbings taken from the Salt-Waste Frontier.
The coarse flax cloth smelled of dry alkali dust, bitter salt, and old stone.
“Look at the runic alignment,” Valeria said, tracing a curved line between the rubbings with the tip of her stylus. “These aren’t ordinary border watchtowers. They’re an unbroken network of eighty-foot basalt monoliths.”
