"Columns ready," she reported. Her voice rasped—throat raw from days barking orders into winter wind—but her will radiated the crispness of tempered steel. She glanced at the map Draven had etched. "Leave it," she told him. "The snow will cover within the hour."
"And if Iron Justiciars sweep the ridge before then?" he asked.
She sniffed. "Let them copy it. Without your numbers it's just lines." She met his gaze, something like reluctant respect flickering there before duty shuttered it. "See your task done, Dravis Granger. Or die where you stand and spare me explaining failure."
His mouth twitched—not a smile, but an understanding straight line. He kicked snow over part of the plan regardless, blurring the finer runic notations. Then he wiped the dagger on his thigh, sheathed it with a muted click.
