The January wind didn't just blow through Blackthorn; it seemed to examine the fortress, seeking out the cracks in the stone and the gaps in the men's resolve.
Jack stood on the battlements, watching the three hundred soldiers of the Marquess's army perform their drills in the mud below. They moved with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency—a singular organism of steel and intent. Marquess Cunningdal stood at the center of it, his presence acting as the anchor around which the entire formation pivoted. He wasn't just commanding them; he was holding the ground beneath them in a state of unnatural stability despite the thaw.
"They're good," a voice said beside him.
Melinda had approached without a sound. She was wearing a new cloak of heavy wool, a deep charcoal color that made her look less like the farm girl Jack had first met and more like the administrator of a burgeoning city. She didn't look at the soldiers. She looked at Jack.
