Jace stood on the rooftop overlooking the Irongate Supply Depot and checked his pocket watch. Two hours past midnight. The city slept beneath a blanket of fog rolling in from the harbor, thick enough to muffle sound and obscure sight lines. Perfect conditions.
Below, the depot sprawled across three city blocks—warehouses stacked with grain, salted meat, medical supplies. Everything Aldrich needed to keep his garrison fed and his martial law enforceable. The place was guarded, but not heavily. Most of the troops had been pulled to the northern border or sent to suppress uprisings in the Threadmark Coast.
Aldrich was stretched thin. And Jace was about to make him thinner.
He raised his hand. Across the rooftops, scattered through the fog, twenty-three rebels waited for the signal. Former
