The tavern’s backroom smelled of damp wood, spilled ale, and smoke. By lantern light, a dozen faces leaned over the crude map Garron had spread across the table. The parchment was worn, stained with age, but the lines of the city were still clear.
Cael stood among them, his hands resting on the table’s edge. His pulse drummed in his ears. This was no longer talk. This was war.
“The grain stores lie here,” Garron said, jabbing a scarred finger at the map. “The eastern district, by the river. Two great stone warehouses, filled to the brim after last month’s harvest. Guarded by soldiers, day and night. They ration out the grain in scraps to the poor while fattening the council’s coffers.”
Rowan leaned in, his eyes sharp. “How many guards?”
“Two dozen at least,” Garron said. “Rotating shif
