Under the hanging lantern, rain whispered down like soft needles. The signet in Cerys's hand felt heavier than any sword she had ever swung in the practice yard. Droplets gathered on the onyx until it gleamed like an eye. She tightened her grip, water squeezing between her fingers.
"What do we do?" Merrit whispered again. His breath fogged the cool night air, then vanished. He shifted from foot to foot, boots sloshing where runoff pooled on the stones. The flutter of his cloak made a soft, frantic drumbeat.
Rodion's report slid into her ear, clinical and cold.
Cerys's jaw clenched. The AI's words echoed inside her skull, but she would not let a machine name her fear. She held still, refusing to blink, as if any motion might shatter the fragile pause that wrapped the bridge.
