The outpost had stopped feeling temporary.
That was the first warning sign.
What had once been a forward hold—canvas, timber, and urgency—now ran with the quiet efficiency of something settling into permanence. Patrol routes rotated with clockwork precision. Supply tallies were kept twice daily. Fires burned low and controlled. Men slept in armor without being told to.
Aya had done that.
She stood bent over a scarred table inside the command tent, one gauntleted hand braced against the wood as she studied the map spread before her. Wax markers dotted the passes in careful patterns—red for sightings, black for confirmed movement, silver pins for Frost Fire scouts still out beyond the ridges.
Her cloak lay discarded over a chair. Her swords rested beside it.
She had not been without them for three days, with her running out and about taking care of the passes along the northern ridge.
