The presses woke the earth.
At first it was a far, numb thudding beneath the floorboards—as if a giant heart lay buried under the village and now beat in perfect, murderous time. Then the thudding turned to thunder. Paper hissed through rollers. Metal chattered like teeth. The oak bent toward the seam in the air, leaves trembling though there was no wind.
“Positions,” Dominic said. He didn’t look back; he didn’t need to. The pack felt him fix into iron. They moved because of his shoulders, because of the angle of his blade, because the steadiness in him made room for their fear.
Sal hugged the sundered ERRATA like a shield, ink still damp on his fingertips. “He’s printing an army,” he whispered, voice shaking into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Faster than we can count.”
“We don’t
