Rumi crouched on the upper ledge of the drainage flue, her lynx ears tilting as she monitored the second station.
Rumi compared the position of the station plate with the ledge below, measuring a landing the captain would not expect her to use.
Mountain wind whistled through the abandoned maintenance galleries along the gorge, carrying the faint metallic scent of active tracing circuits.
Her four amber Wings fluttered behind her back like translucent ribbons, ready to channel the spatial pathways of Many Roads.
Down in the fortified control chamber stood an enemy garrison captain, wielding an eight-foot glaive with spiked counterweights.
The captain did not pace the room aimlessly, for his gaze was locked onto the landing plate Rumi marked yesterday.
'He is not watching the doorway or the ventilation shaft,' Rumi observed, a cunning smile curving her lips.
'He figured out that spatial travel requires an anchor, and he is waiting to impale me the second I step through!'
