The alcohol spirit-lamp flickered low, its blue flame dancing as the draught through the tent lacing freshened with the rising gale.
Kezra Venn pulled a clean sheet of heavy rag paper from her field folio, dipping her wooden metal pen into the small horn of lampblack ink. Outside, nineteen days remained on Adra Pike’s hourglass ledger before Alderfast would initiate its staged southern escape. Every hour of daylight, every scrap of food, and every drop of lamp fuel on the high ascent had to be accounted for with exact rigor.
“Before we sleep,” Kezra said, her voice quiet in the amber glow, “we lock the agenda. We don’t climb into the snows with vague hopes. We climb with a checklist of stone.”
Beside her, Yseld Arken trimmed the wick of the spirit-lamp with the point of her knife. Meanwhile, Paxa Sel checked the seals on their leftover salt vials and Voss double-checked the lashing on his bag of iron wedges.
“Lay out the stages, Kezra,” Yseld said. “What does Day 119 demand?”
“Tomorrow morning, at first light,” Kezra began, writing the points in firm, readable land-mapper’s script, “we cross the frost line into the upper survey-corps clearings. Between the timberline and the high snow saddle, there are two historical relay stations: Alpine Camp An and Alpine Camp B. Both are sixteen-pace squares. We’ll inspect their stonework, sound their footings down to eight paces, and certify them as Plot-scale parcels. That will carry our completed circuit count from thirty-seven to thirty-nine…
