In the heavy silence that followed Davren’s words, Adra Pike stepped forward to the center of the drafting table, placing both of her flour-dusted hands flat against the edges of the two Horizon profiles.
The basin leader looked directly at Kezra Venn. There was no pity in Adra’s eyes, and no panic. There was only the huge, practical sanity of a woman who had managed seed stores, water rights, and frozen winters for twenty years.
“Tell me what walking away today actually accomplishes, Kezra,” Adra said. Her voice was quiet, but it filled the hall with the weight of granite. “Sit down on that bench, take a piece of chalk, and count the miles and days like a map maker instead of an angry child.”
Kezra didn’t sit, but she didn’t reach for her pack straps either. She stood braced against the table, forcing her breathing into a slow, disciplined count.
“Look at the map,” Adra continued, pointing south. “You want to march to Kilnstep to rescue Maud. How far is it from Alderfast’s southern gallery to your mother’s kiln house?”
“One hundred and forty miles,” Kezra answered, her voice hollow. “Through the southern rock gallery, across the high scree of the Needlehouse, through twenty miles of resin canopy in Hushwood, across the bitter salt flats of Saltglass, and over the fiery passes of Blackglass.”
