The lower training grounds were dusted with a skin of black ice.
Cassian stood on the stone viewing platform, the collar of his leather surcoat pulled high against the biting wind. Beside him, Severin remained motionless, his hands lost in the wide sleeves of his dark robes, his eyes tracking the integrated garrison below.
The northern soldiers below moved with silent obedience that completely ignored the southern captains' shouts. They were a legion of shadows, their movements synchronized by a cadence that hadn't been written in the southern war rooms.
"The channels in the wastes are not dormant, Your Majesty," Severin whispered, his voice barely carrying over the whistling wind. "Prince Zayne's scouts have confirmed the power is shifting frequencies. Someone is redirecting the grid from the outside. Their soldiers inside our walls are not waiting for a wedding. They are waiting for a signal."
