Aiden stood at the head of the long obsidian table in the sky-palace's strategy hall. The room smelled of fresh ink and oiled metal.
Maps covered the walls, pinned with markers showing supply lines, trade routes, and troop positions. Elizabeth leaned over the central table, pointing at clusters of red flags in the northern sectors.
"They're not done fighting," she said. "The merchant-lords pooled gold from three major houses. It's headed north to prop up what's left of the Pure Church. They want a counter-pope who will denounce you publicly."
Nyra stepped forward. Her shadow stretched across the floor even though the hall's lanterns burned bright. She raised one hand and the shadows rippled.
Copies of every person in the room appeared—perfect doubles, down to the stitching on uniforms and the scar on a guard's jaw. The illusions moved in sync, then broke apart and reformed as silent scouts standing at attention.
