The Oakhaven Ridge was freezing. Below the ridge, the valley was shaped like a bowl that hid the village of Oakhaven and the Northern artillery dug into the opposite terraces.
Cassian stood at the edge of the overlook.
He was wearing a black plate, the metal dull and scratched from the week's activities. Beside him, Xavier—now a general—held a brass binoculars, his knuckles white against the metal.
"The Northern line is shifting, Your Majesty," Xavier said. "They're repositioning their resonance cannons. If we strike the center now, their shields are too thin to hold. We break them in twenty minutes."
Cassian took the binoculars. Through the lens, he saw the flickering blue static of the Northern defensive perimeter. It was unstable. A concentrated surge would shatter it.
But he also saw the movement in the valley.
Small, dark shapes moved between the thatched roofs of the Oakhaven village.
Civilians.
