The morning of the containment run was the kind of cold that found every seam in Soren's uniform and made a home there. The muster ground was a rectangle of blued flagstone, rimed in salt and black moss. Soren flexed his fingers to check for nerve return, then let his hands fall still at his sides.
Cassian stood at the head of Blue Company, perfectly angled, not a speck of lint on him, so obvious it might have been a provocation.
Dane didn't speak until the line was silent enough for breath to echo. His armor was only half buckled, and his eyes held that cure-all for insomnia called "too many hours." He paced the length once, boots smearing the frost, baton tapping his thigh in loose syncopation.
"You'll run Edge Hollow again," he said. "Live steel. No guards, no visors. Medical is pre-staffed. Objective: breach and hold the center for thirty heartbeats." He let the instructions rest like an iron on the row of shivering spines.
