The war chamber of Fortress Eboncliff smelled of damp slate, lamp-oil, and the lingering copper tang of the night's slaughter. Smoke from an overworked brazier curled against the rafters, painting lazy whorls that never quite escaped into the higher dark. Outside, the clang of scavenged armor being hammered straight drifted up the stairwells in ragged intervals, every ring a reminder that dawn was already old and the ruse had to be perfect before sunset.
Wilhelmina's boots clicked in impatient staccato as she paced from chart-table to arrow-slit, counting under her breath. She paused only long enough to swipe a sleeve across the frosted glass, squinting at the gray courtyard below where sappers wrestled broken beams into something vaguely resembling a catapult. Soot streaked the curve of her cheekbone; chalk dust powdered the knuckles of the hand gripping her slate.
