By midday, the resistance camp had become a hive of activity.
Maps covered the central table in Reagan's command tent, their edges pinned down by daggers, inkpots, and whatever else the officers could find. Outside, soldiers moved between supply wagons while messengers hurried from one tent to another. Every few minutes, someone entered with a report, delivered it to the commander on duty, and disappeared again.
Reagan stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to her elbows, studying the fortress drawn across the largest map.
The High Priestess's castle had been built to withstand a siege. Its outer walls were reinforced with old enchantments, its gates protected by wards that could turn an advancing army into a pile of ash, and its watchtowers offered a clear view of the surrounding approaches.
A direct assault would be suicide.
Which was precisely why Reagan had no intention of conducting one.
"Jules, I want the eastern gate examined again. Not by the same scouts. Send a different team, and tell them to pay attention to the drainage channels beneath the outer wall."
Jules marked the location on his copy of the map.
"If the old plans are accurate, the channels won't be large enough for an entire unit."
"Then they don't need to be. I need to know whether they can get a small team through without alerting the guards."
"And if the plans aren't accurate?"
"Then I want to know that before we start throwing soldiers at a fortified wall."
Jules nodded and moved away to issue the order.
Reagan turned to Ron.
"The diversion?"
"Ready to be organised. We can make enough noise along the southern road to draw the outer patrols away from the fortress."
"Good. But I don't want a battle there. The moment the guards commit to pursuing you, break contact and withdraw. We need them looking in the wrong direction, not savagely slaughtering half our people."
Ron gave a short nod.
"And the amulets?" he asked.
"That's my next concern."
Reagan crossed to a smaller table where several dozen amulets lay arranged in neat rows. Some were made of silver, others of darkened iron, their surfaces etched with protective runes. A few bore cracks from previous battles.
She picked up the first and held it between her palms.
Light gathered beneath her fingers.
The rune along its edge flickered once, then settled into a steady glow. Reagan moved to the next amulet and repeated the process. One by one, their enchantments awakened, drawing on the magic she fed into them.
The work was painstaking. Charging too much power into an amulet could fracture its core; too little would leave its bearer exposed when the castle's wards struck.
Reagan had no intention of giving the High Priestess an advantage because she had been careless.
"Every soldier entering the inner grounds gets one," she said. "The outer wards will break under the enchantments. These will give them a chance to survive. However they won't protect anyone indefinitely. Make sure the captains understand that. We need to act fast."
Ron watched the light travel beneath the surface of the amulet in her hand.
"And if the wards are stronger than we expect?"
"Then I will simply overpower it. It will create much more commotion and take away the element of surprise but it will be a last resort."
"You make that sound remarkably simple."
Reagan looked up.
"Would you prefer I panic?"
"No. I'd prefer you slept occasionally."
"Put it on the list of things we'll do when the High Priestess stops trying to kill us."
A few of the officers laughed, but the sound faded when Reagan returned to the map.
She was already moving the markers, calculating how long it would take the first team to reach the inner courtyard and how quickly the others could follow. The castle was only one part of the problem. They had to seize control of the fortress without allowing the High Priestess to escape with the very thing they intended to take.
Every decision carried another risk.
Every delay gave their enemies time to recover.
"Once the outer wards are breached, the first unit moves for the western tower," she said. "The second secures the main corridor. No one pursues a fleeing guard beyond the assigned perimeter. I want the command chamber taken intact."
"And the High Priestess?" Jules asked from the other end of the table.
Reagan's fingers stopped over the map.
"We leave her Alive, if possible."
"If possible?"
"If she surrenders, we let her prisoner. If she attacks my soldiers, they defend themselves. I won't sacrifice an entire unit to preserve her life."
No one argued.
Reagan picked up another amulet. A hairline crack ran along its centre.
She frowned, set it aside, and reached for a fresh one.
The operation had to work. There was too much riding on it
"Review the plan again," she ordered. "Every captain. Every route. Every signal. I want the smallest possible margin for confusion."
The officers returned to their tasks.
Reagan bent over the map once more.
She would review it again in an hour. And after that, she would review it again.
She had learned the hard way that confidence could not compensate for a mistake no one had bothered to anticipate.
Back at Annabella's Villa,
Annabella was checking the arrangements for the naming ceremony when a servant informed her that George was waiting for her outside.
She set down the list of guests.
"I will see him in a minute."
A moment later, Annabella was outside.
George appeared standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hair and clothes completely messed, and his hands clasped behind his back. He looked unusually solemn.
Annabella's expression softened.
"Come here, darling."
He came up at once.
She crouched trying to straighten the fastening at his collar, although it was useless.
"Have you been causing Lyz trouble?"
"No."
Annabella gave him a look.
"A little trouble," he admitted.
"George."
"She started it."
"I'm sure she would tell the story differently."
"She always does."
Annabella smiled and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
"What is it?"
He hesitated, glancing towards the open doorway as though he expected someone to overhear.
"Why can't I come with you?"
Her hands stilled.
"To the ceremony preparations?"
George nodded.
"You're going to the residence, and Father is staying here. Why can't I go with you?"
Annabella studied his face. He was trying to appear curious rather than upset, but the tightness around his mouth betrayed him.
They were looking directly at one another.
"Because it is our tradition, my beautiful boy. On the day before the naming ceremony, the child remains with his father's entourage. His father and the people who will stand beside him during the rite prepare him for the responsibilities he will inherit. The mother leaves to make the final arrangements for the ceremony."
George considered this.
"But you know the ceremony better than Father does."
"Perhaps." She brushed her thumb over his cheek. "But traditions aren't always about who knows the most. Sometimes they are about giving people their own part to play."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Spend time with your father. Practise the rite. Ask him all the questions you have been saving up for me."
His face fell a little.
"What if he thinks them stupid?"
Annabella's heart gave a painful twist.
She could have assured him that everything would go perfectly. Instead, she kept her voice calm and warm.
"He was about your age when he attended his late elder brother's naming ceremony. I am sure he would look kindly at your questions."
George nodded, but his eyes had begun to shine.
He quickly rubbed at them with the heels of his hands, turning his face aside as though he could hide the evidence from her.
Annabella caught his wrists gently.
"There's no need to hide that from me."
"I'm not crying."
"Of course not."
"I'm not."
"Then these must be very determined tears."
He gave a tiny, reluctant laugh, and she drew him into her arms.
George clung to her at once, burying his face against her shoulder. Annabella held him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other moved slowly over his back.
"My beautiful boy," she whispered into his hair. "I will see you at the ceremony."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He held on for another moment before pulling away. Annabella brushed the dampness from beneath his eyes and kissed his forehead.
"Now, I want you to enjoy yourself. You are not responsible for making the ceremony perfect, George. You only need to be there and be yourself."
He nodded.
"And don't cause unnecessary troubles to Lyz. That does not mean you cannot keep things interesting"
George brightened.
"Mother... are you suggesting I did little ...very little mischief"
"My son is underthinking this."
He laughed properly this time.
Annabella stood and took his hands.
"Go on. Your father is waiting."
George hesitated, then threw his arms around her waist once more.
She embraced him, holding him until he was ready to let go.
When he finally stepped back, he wiped his face with his sleeve and straightened his shoulders.
"I'll be very good."
"You don't have to be perfect."
"I love you mother."
He said it quickly.
Annabella kissed his forehead again and watched him leave with one of the attendants.
Only after the doors closed did she allow her smile to fade.
She had spent the morning arranging flowers, confirming the order of the rites, and checking the guest list. There were still a dozen details to settle before the ceremony, yet none of them troubled her as much as the thought of George spending the day hoping his father would finally give him something he could rely on.
She turned back.
There was work to do, and she intended to see it through.
Harry's office was already crowded with reports by the time Lyz arrived.
He stood beside the window, reading a dispatch from one of the southern commanders. Several maps had been spread across his desk, weighted down with a metal paperknife and a pair of heavy books. A half-finished cup of tea sat untouched beside them.
"Has the message reached Dvark?" he asked without looking up.
"Yes, Your Grace. The messenger left before noon."
"And the eastern commanders?"
"They've received their instructions. The revised supply routes are being prepared, and the quartermasters have been told to account for the additional Death Mage forces."
Harry put down the dispatch.
"Good. I want the first reports before the end of the day. If the Butcher has already moved against the northern settlements, we cannot afford to wait for the next council meeting to respond."
"I'll see to it."
He returned to the map.
"There's another matter. The Death Mages have agreed to cooperate, but cooperation is not the same as trust. I want our commanders to share what is necessary for the operation, nothing more. No one discusses troop reserves or the location of our secondary stores without my authorisation."
Lyz made a note.
"And if Dvark asks for the same information from us?"
"Then he can ask me."
She looked up. "You expect him to accept that?"
"I expect him to understand that both sides have something to lose. If he wants this alliance to work, he'll have to tolerate a few precautions."
Harry moved a marker across the map.
"The Butcher has been cornering us for weeks. He knows where our forces are stretched thin, and he's been exploiting every gap. We need the Death Mages to hold the approaches we cannot defend alone. If this arrangement fails, we'll lose more than territory. We'll lose the ability to protect the smaller settlements."
Lyz closed her notebook.
"Then perhaps this is the first agreement in some time that might actually help."
"Perhaps."
Harry's eyes drifted towards the window again.
Through it, he could see part of the courtyard and the path leading to the residence's western entrance. Annabella would be leaving soon.
He had watched her with George earlier; seen how easily she softened when the boy's composure began to crack. Enhancing his earing, He had heard the affection in her voice and watched her draw their son into her arms without hesitation.
She had never needed to be taught how to love someone.
Harry turned back to the desk.
"Did Annabella leave already?"
Lyz's pen paused.
"Not yet, Your Grace. She's seeing to the final arrangements before crossing to the Winstor residence."
"Has she said asked to see me?"
"She hasn't mentioned anything yet."
"I see."
Lyz waited. Harry said nothing more, so she returned to her notes.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the scratching of her pen and the occasional rustle of paper. Then Harry looked up again.
"My child needs a father."
Lyz stopped writing.
"Excuse me, Your Grace?"
Harry stared at the map before him.
He seemed to be speaking to himself, but when he continued, his voice was clear.
"Sometimes I wish the boy had never been born. At least then, I might still have access to his mother."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Lyz's expression did not change, but her fingers tightened around the pen until the nib pressed a dark mark into the paper.
Harry had said it without anger. That was what made it so dreadful. There was no sudden fury to blame, no heated argument in which he had lost control. He had simply looked at the problem of his life and wished away his own son as though the boy were an unfortunate obstacle.
Lyz could have rebuked him. She could have reminded him that George was a child who adored him, a boy who had spent the morning asking whether his father would keep his promises.
Instead, she lowered her eyes.
"Would you care for a drink, Your Grace?"
Harry rubbed a hand over his face.
"Yes. Please."
She put down her notebook, crossed to the sideboard, and poured him a measure of brandy. When she returned, he had sat down and was staring at a letter without reading it.
Lyz placed the glass beside his hand.
He looked up at her.
"You think I'm a terrible father."
She kept her expression composed.
"I don't believe my opinion would be useful to you at present, Your Grace."
For a moment, he almost smiled. Then his gaze fell to the glass.
"No. I suppose not."
Lyz stood beside the desk, waiting to see whether he would say anything else. He didn't.
She returned to her notes.
The jealousy she had spent so long keeping buried was still there, a small, humiliating ache. She had watched Harry search Annabella's face for affection, seen him reach for a hand that was no longer freely offered, and herself had felt the familiar sting of being present while Annabella's thoughts belonged entirely to someone else.
But whatever she felt About Annabella's distant behaviour, she would never have harboured such thoughts
George was a child.
And no child deserved to be wished away for the sake of a woman's affection.