Edric's day began with a soft knock—three quick, two slow—the code he and Lady Elena Rowe had invented in the capital's archives. He cracked the door. Fiona stood barefoot, hair half-braided, clutching a bronze message tube.
"Courier hawk from Crestport," she whispered. "Red wax. Sparrow seal."
Edric's pulse flipped. He broke the wax; lilac-scented parchment slid free.
Prince Scholar,
Crestport dawns grey. Rumour dawns brighter: Baron Tevrin's incense wagons left Northgate three nights ago—plague-priests in black gauze. Smoke sweet as lilies; lungs sour soon after.
I still keep your rune sketches on my sill; sunrise makes them glimmer. Try not to spill all your blood before I steal your archive seat again.
— E. Rowe
A cipher wheel no wider than a coin dropped from the scroll, its new dial inked Rowe-green. Elena never sent words without tools.
Fiona tipped her head. "Old friend?"
"Old rival," Edric said, though the warmth in his grin betrayed him. "She once taxed my pastry allowance four-hundred percent."
"That's criminal." Fiona brightened. "Need a reply? I can hammer a heart-glyph in the wax."
"Soon," he promised, pocketing the wheel beside its battered predecessor. "First we make sure incense carts meet a wall, not our lungs."
Brynn's boots sounded behind them. "If Tevrin sends plague smoke, we'll need vinegar cloths and charcoal. I'll set Rafe on it."
"And add salt," Edric said. "Rowe barges can supply at cost."
Brynn arched a brow—he rarely invoked his past so openly—but nodded and strode away, already dictating tempo.
Outside, the courtyard hummed. Merra's apprentices stretched green boar-hide over oak rims; lanky Will hauled cedar boards while chanting Brynn's cadence. Rafe chalked fresh numbers on the ledger slate:
BOWS 17
ARROWS 136
SHIELDS 34
CHARCOAL ?
Each question mark made his quill twitch like a nervous hare. Edric helped Will slide boards onto a sawhorse.
"Festival night," Will puffed. "Think Tevrin sends smoke or an invitation?"
"Likely smoke," Edric said. "We'll answer with wood and arrow."
Axes bit pine; sap perfumed the damp air. Fiona's hammer rang bright as she etched twin-hook runes into a strip of heart-iron. Sixteen full minutes of glow, she boasted. Edric pressed the cooling strip onto his buckler; glyphs slithered beneath iron skin and winked out, hungry for command. Nearby recruits whispered—magic respected was magic they would bleed beside.
Cress slid down the watch-tower rope, boots splashing. "Smoke north," he rasped. "Thin, white… sweet."
The wind carried a ghost of lilies. "Drill in masks," Edric ordered. "If you can't breathe easy through linen now, you won't last plague fog later." Cress saluted; fear flickered into resolve.
Clouds thinned to grey lace by mid-afternoon. Brynn put spear lines through twist-and-snap repetitions; dull hooks thudded into shields, metal clattered free. Will's board—Old Shieldy II—held fast; pride wrestled fatigue in his grin. Steam curled from vats of soaking bowstaves, and the goat—ribboned by Wren—chewed an abandoned boot with dignified purpose.
Edric and Merra hauled a tub of hot water, pine-pitch steam rising around them. Merra muttered, "Never thought we'd be tanners too."
"Never thought I'd lead more than a library debate," Edric answered, their tired laugh sounding almost like strength.
Rafe burst from a loft ladder, charcoal sacks over his shoulders. "Three bags, Prince! Hidden by the old smithy bellows." His victory squeak startled the goat, which retaliated by head-butting Will's lute case. The instrument survived; Will christened it Steelhorn and promised the goat first serenade after the war.
Brynn clapped once—sound sharp as a latch. "Tools down. Festival dress. Clean tunic qualifies; anyone smelling like forge dross pours first ale." Recruits dunked arms in barrels, smoothed hair with stiff fingers, and lined lantern poles around the yard. Fiona lit each basin with a taper. Pitch whoomped to life, gilding fresh stakes.
Twilight bruised the sky purple-orange. Will coaxed tentative chords from Steelhorn; Ronan banged a ladle on his tower shield for rhythm. Kitchens ladled barley-duck stew into dented helmets; Sir Harlan produced spiced cider "liberated" from a tax cart—no one examined paperwork. Even Rafe lifted a mug just to watch the ledger blur.
Edric climbed a crate. "Forge for strength," he called.
"Harvest for life," Ronan boomed, shield-drum echoing.
"Hearth for rest," Will sang, eyes shining above steam.
"And Watch for the wall," Brynn finished, tilting her mug toward the banner—blood palms, tusks, soot streaks, Garrick's grey helm. Torchglow caught the cloth; for a breath it looked almost royal.
They drank. Laughter eddied with smoke. Cress raced the goat; both children lost by two stubborn strides. Sir Harlan taught a marching song so bawdy Rafe threatened fines—payment accepted in cider instead. Even Ashcoil accepted a cube of duck, swallowing with reptilian disdain before coiling near the brazier.
Edric let stillness wrap him. Garrick's absence felt like a gap, not a wound; the veteran's gravel laugh seemed to bounce torch to torch. Brynn appeared, mug empty.
"Could almost believe we aren't hanging by splinters," she said.
"Splinters hold if you pack enough," he replied.
She eyed him. "Letter from the salt-princess soften you?"
"Sharpened focus," he said, tapping the cipher wheel through his cloak. "Information is alloy; sentiment's the temper."
"Spoken like a scholar who finally picked up a hammer." Her half-smile was the rarest sight of the week.
Stars powdered a clearing sky; forge embers dulled to glow. Recruits drifted to bunks, lingering to pat the goat or thump Will's shoulder. Fiona capped the forge, leaving a red heart beneath ash.
Edric climbed the parapet. The north wind smelled of river mud—and lilies. Ronan joined him, visor up, dangling a bent arrow-barb.
"Twist, it snaps—just like Brynn said."
"Good. Tomorrow we test masks."
"And if smoke's thicker?"
"Then we fire the braziers and make our own wind."
Ronan saluted with the broken barb and descended humming Harlan's filthy tune. Edric stayed. Ashcoil slid onto the stone, rune-scales glowing dim amber; the serpent faced north, tasting the same sweet threat.
Wind worried the banner, tusks jangling against cloth. The grey helm winked in starlight—iron that looked almost proud. He pressed the cipher wheel between palms, feeling its new dial shift, under skin—Rowe ingenuity, Rowe faith.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "we breathe, we hold, and we count names—still more than none." Ashcoil pulsed gold, sealing the vow. Edric exhaled frost and followed fading music toward sleep, leaving the banner to talk to the dark.
Iron gears screamed beneath a ruined keep far to the north. Baron Tevrin's plague-priests stacked incense bricks—wax-sealed, lily-sweet—into wagon crates painted with serpent sigils.
"South by dawn," croaked the lead priest, lungs already rasping behind gauze.
"South," echoed the driver, snapping reins. Sweet smoke hissed from a cracked box, curling on the same wind that carried festival song from Innisford hours away.
The war of air had begun.