The ridge lit like a sentence being underlined in fire.
Torches pricked through the pines along the east slope; to the west, lacquer shields rose and fell in steady breath; from the north, silver banners unspooled between trunks, taut as violin strings waiting for a cruel hand.
“Positions,” Ysra rasped. “No speeches. If you pray, do it with your feet.”
Unsung slid to the west lip with Dominic, shields shouldering sky, spears low. Tor peeled off with Sal and half the runners, shepherding elders and children down the south ravine that had learned to pretend it was harmless. Mireya limped to the throat of the quarry and set her staff like a keel. Lena and Kael climbed to the east shelf—the place with the best view and the least forgiveness.
“Make them think we’re running,” Lena said, crou
