The morning sun had risen high enough above the eastern peaks to strike the upper castle walls of Stonewake Citadel. That turned the frosted limestone crenellations into dazzling bars of white fire. In the courtyard below, the cold remained sharp and unbending. It pooled in the shadows of the barracks walls where the fifth and final company of the Cairn Host stood in the rope lanes.
Kezra Venn’s knuckles were stiff with cold, her shoulders aching from the sustained stance of standing over the wooden table for two unbroken hours. On the cedar wedge before her, the bonded survey notebook rested with its pages glowing in deep emerald radiance. In the margin, the numbers had climbed past two hundred and eighty: 284 / 318 Bonded Tags.
Fellis Dain notched his tally rod with a steady, rhythmic flick of his knife, his braced arm resting against his chest. “Lane three, next squad of four,” he called out.
Four spear guards from the castle guard post company stepped forward. They were young men from the southern borderlands, their wool uniforms patched with leather at the knees and elbows, their iron breastplates scoured clean with river sand. Around each man’s right wrist, the copper-and-linen travel bracelet sat snug against the skin.
