For thirty-five hours after the manifest arrived, the defenders checked their trenches and watched the approaching fortress. When Vane finally finished decoding the document, two brass paperweights pinned its curling edges against the cedar table.
Inside the command pavilion, Deacon Vane leaned over the dried parchment, his spectacles fogging from the lantern’s heat.
Beside him, Sera Thorne gripped the edge of the wood, her amber eyes scanning the columns of coded ink.
Princess Valeria and Alchemist Linnea stood shoulder to shoulder behind them, holding their breath as each line was deciphered.
“What is in that flying vault?” Valeria asked, her voice tight with anticipation.
“Ten iron chests of refined spirit silver,” Vane murmured, his fingers tracing down the inventory list. “Four thousand high-grade alchemy cauldrons looted from the southern cities. Three hundred blood-forged heavy halberds.”
“Malakor looted half the province to build that fortress,” Linnea muttered under her breath, watching Vane’s stylus scratch notes.
Sera’s gaze skipped past the military hardware, darting toward the sealed inner sanctum section.
