The strategy room is exactly where I knew they’d be.
I can’t explain how. The caravan has its own rhythm—footsteps, ward-hums, where voices carry when decisions are being made that pretend not to involve me. Some part of me mapped it the moment I stepped inside.
The door stands half open.
I pause, hand braced against cool stone, listening.
Low voices. Controlled.
Orion’s voice is the anchor—deep, steady, command woven through even his quiet tones. Silas’s is softer, edged, like every word is a blade he’s already weighed.
I inhale once.
Then I push the door open.
Both of them look up immediately.
Orion stands at the long table, palms braced on either side of a spread of parchment maps and glowing sigil slates. His dark coat hangs open, like he hasn’t decided whether he’s off duty o
