The dirt in the subterranean bunkers did not yield to the shovel; it had to be broken like bone.
Deep within the structural underbelly of the eastern trenches, where the fortress foundations sloped down into the damp limestone hollows, the air was a freezing, gray mist. It smelled of wet wool, iron-shod spades, and the sharp, volatile musk of sixty unranked omegas who had spent three watches digging out the secondary casualty tiers. Overhead, the timber beams groaned under the rhythmic, concussive *thud-thud* of the first vanguard moving their heavy supply sleds across the frozen courtyard.
Elena stood by a low timber table hewn from rough pine, her fingers stiff and red beneath the frayed edges of the wool shawl she had pulled tight around her ribs.
She wasn't sitting in the high estat
