Jace
If Ronan’s the hammer, I’m the chisel. He smashes through problems; I pick at the cracks until the whole thing falls apart in my hand. That’s why southern patrol planning gets dumped in my lap.
The south is where Ashgrave’s quiet treachery festers. Too far from Redmaw to see the blood on their teeth, too close to Silvercrest’s coin to risk open war. That makes them opportunists. And opportunists are dangerous in the same way a blade under the table is.
I spread the latest patrol reports across my desk, already seeing the holes.
The paper smells like damp fur and frustration. My captains mean well, but half of them write like they’re filing poetry instead of threat assessments. I scrawl corrections in the margins, then start moving markers across the map pinned to the wall.
We’re
