The gate had stopped looking like a gate an hour ago. What remained was a wound—raw granite glowing at the edges where holy fire had chewed through stone older than three of Aldenreach's own dynasties, smoke rising in a column thick enough to swallow whatever moon still hung over their banners. I watched it from the north rampart, close enough that the heat pulled at the edges of my mask, far enough that Zereth's hand stayed locked around my forearm with the weight of a general who had held that grip through worse nights than this one.
"Not yet, My Lord." He didn't look at me. His eyes never left the breach. "The instant you step onto that field, every scrying charm in their war-council knows exactly where to aim their second wave. We hold with what we have until they commit fully."
I hated that he was right. I hated it more when I saw who was holding the line in my place.
