The sharp, metal tap of Kezra Venn’s brass dividers against the northern rim of the drafting table silenced the map chamber. Marshal Solvan Krail lowered his quill, his brow furrowing as he looked down at the feature her dividers had singled out.
Along the northern boundary plane of the Stonewake profile, the mountain stone base didn’t end in a flat, level terrace. The original ground shape formed three distinct, uneven stepped rises—three massive granite benches, each rising sixteen paces above the last, carved by ancient glaciers and heavy by survey-corps retaining walls to form the high northern approach to the castle.
“You speak of relocating this castle to your southern market crossroads, Marshal,” Kezra said, her voice cutting through the warm room with clean, steady care. “You imagine that because your merchant syndicates own flat pastureland beside the river, you can point a finger at a map and drop Stonewake Citadel upon the grass.”
Krail’s eyes narrowed into a cold, dangerous squint. “The market crossroads possesses more than enough area, Mistress Venn. It’s four square miles of flat meadowland. A 1,024-pace square will fit within its borders four times over.”
“Area is irrelevant,” Kezra replied without flinching. “Area is a concept for tax collectors and sheep herders. Cartographic shifted weight operates under the conservation of three-space-folding volume and height shape.”
