The transport vessel smelled of iron and old canvas and the particular staleness of recycled air that had been breathed by soldiers for a hundred years before any of them were born. The troop bay had no windows. The benches ran along both walls and the floor plating vibrated with the steady pulse of the mana engines beneath.
Five hours to the western continent. They spent the first hour checking gear and the next two in various states of quiet. Valerica read. Isole sat with her staff across her knees and her eyes half-closed, running her internal equilibrium, the faint opposing currents of her mana just visible as a barely-perceptible shimmer around her shoulders in the dim light of the bay. Ashe sat with her legs stretched across the bench and her arms folded and her head back against the hull, and she was either sleeping or doing a very convincing impression of it.
Vane looked at the ceiling and thought about wave nine.
