In the deep shadow of the eagle’s-nest, the darkness was now complete save for the cold, brilliant dusting of autumn stars that wheeled above the jagged teeth of the Spine.
Fellis Dain sat propped against a dry granite slab, a small square of marking slate balanced on his knees. In his uninjured right hand, he held a piece of sharpened soapstone, its white tip scratching soft, deliberate numbers into the dark slate by the starlight.
“Sunset was at six bells,” Fellis whispered, squinting at his tally. “Ulvan spoke his final count at six bells and twenty minutes. That means his Plot cooldown runs until six bells and twenty minutes tomorrow evening on Day eighty-four. Not an hour earlier.”
“A Plot exchange imposes twenty-four hours of global lock,” Kezra confirmed. She leaned beside him while Paxa carefully adjusted the wool bandage around Kezra’s bleeding knees. “Every scale in his book is frozen. He can’t activate a Quarter swap to block a pass. He can’t activate a Reach swap to move an outpost. He can’t even move a four-pace Step square to shift a supply crate.”
Paxa pulled the linen knot snug and patted Kezra’s shin. “The class ledger plays no favorites. It doesn’t care whether you’re an unlicensed girl from an upland pottery kiln or a senior master on Marshal Krail’s payroll. When the volume moves, the cooldown locks the blood. If Krail ordered Ulvan to move a single pebble by mapmaking tonight, Ulvan’s book would remain cold as river ice.”
