Eastridge Hold woke before the sun.
Not with horns or shouted orders, but with the quiet efficiency of soldiers who had learned to move without announcing themselves. Boots struck stone in muted rhythm. Armor was strapped tight, blades checked and rechecked. No one laughed. No one spoke above a murmur.
Isolde stood on the inner rampart, wrapped in a dark cloak, the chill of the pre-dawn air biting through the fabric. Below her, the muster yard filled slowly—veterans first, then regular garrison soldiers, then the auxiliary unit formed from the restless guards who had traveled with her from the capital.
They stood straighter now.
Marcus moved among them without ceremony.
He did not stand above them. He did not bark commands. He checked straps, adjusted grips, spoke in low tones meant for one soldier at a time.
"Knife too loose."
"Shield angle—tilt it."
"Breathe slower. You'll see better."
They listened.
