"After that," I said, leaning my back against the heavy oak dining table that had manifested in the center of our new hub, "we take the Tower."
The words were bold, maybe a little too bold for a guy who was still picking dried swamp mud out of his fingernails, but they seemed to settle the frantic energy in the room. For the first time in what felt like years—but was really only a few days of objective time—we were all in the same space. No chat boxes, no shimmering blue screens between us. Just us.
"Take the Tower. Right. Great plan," Red said, though she didn't look up from her daggers. She was sitting cross-legged on a rug that looked suspiciously like the one from our foyer back in Silver-Port. "Can we maybe take a nap first? Or a shower? I smell like a salt-cured herring and I'm pretty sure my hair has turned into a structural hazard."
