Lyra had been the problem in other people’s war plans before.
This time, she was determined to be the flaw in someone else’s.
Atlas spread a printout of the north ravine sector across the garage workbench. Lines of patrol routes and camera cones crisscrossed the paper, Theo’s notes scrawled in the margins. Cassian, Nia, Sienna and Darius ringed the table with Lyra, the buzz of the rest of the pack a low hum outside.
“They hit here, last night,” Atlas said, tapping the choke point. “And brushed the edge again this morning. No full assault. Just…pressure.”
“Prodding,” Lyra said. “They’re watching who moves and how.”
Darius frowned. “We can’t not respond to a poke at the wards.”
“Didn’t say don’t respond,” she replied. “I’m saying we decide what they see when they poke. Right now, we’re
