CHAPTER 466: 466: THE MORNING THE STONES WENT QUIET PART TWO

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He straightened and stepped back. Duty flowed into the place where awe had been. When he spoke, it carried to the people he would trust with his throat.

"Luna," he said. "The hall is yours until noon. No crowds at the door. No pilgrim lines."

"Understood," Luna answered, eyes bright. "If anyone wants to pray, they can sweep instead."

"Azhara, Skyweaver," Kai continued. "Quarter watches here for the next day. Swap before your hands shake. No hero work. Call me if a hero is required."

Azhara grinned, short and sure. "If a hero is required, we will call two."

"Silvershadow," Kai said, and in saying it, left two floors of work in a single name. "Outer ring. Moving layers. Three of ten five-star drones in each shadow. No swagger. Anyone who looks at us wrong leaves without eyes."

"Done," Silvershadow said. The grin returned, more honest now. "I like easy jobs."

Kai looked at Akayoroi and did not veil his respect. "Caperter queen," he said, not to flatter but to name an office. "Listen to the room. If it asks for something, tell me before it asks again."

"It will ask for quiet and time," she answered. "I will give it both and tell it to be grateful."

Alka’s beak tapped the doorway once, a bird’s way of saying she had heard all that mattered. She pivoted and took herself up-shaft to the roof with three strides and a launch that left a curl in the wake of her wings.

Kai lost the private smile in his face before anyone could make fun of it. It was enough to feel it for a blink.

He turned to go. The chamber hummed behind him, content as a house after bread.

On the stairs Shadeclaw met him with the day’s ledger already in his head: shifts, drills, repairs that wanted hands, a crack that had grown under a water trough. Vexor waited behind the command stone, already fidgeting, which meant he had slept badly and would overcompensate with work. Needle had a list. Shale had a complaint that was actually a compliment.

Kai listened. He approved. He refused a brave idea dressed like a smart one and made a smart one happen faster than it wanted to. He did not think he was good at this; he did it anyway. On the second landing, Yavri’s captains moved aside without being asked; discipline had learned the smell of the mountain’s morning.

As he reached the long hall that measured the hill’s spine, the bell in his skull chose its moment to set a hook in a harsher world.

Far to the south and east Forest, where the flats narrowed into an old cut of road and the wind taught the same lesson every afternoon about grit and patience, banners were lifted over a broad front. Dust rose, not in plumes but in a long, even smear that told a watcher this was not chaos. It was heavy.

General Vorak, who had never been small in any room, looked larger still when the desert had to carry him. His plates had been lacquered and sanded until the sheen looked like it came from the shell and not the art; his antennae were a little too still, the way an old fighter’s hands sit quiet so no one can count their tremor. His eyes did not blink more or less than the rule. He had never needed to practice looking patient. Patience, in him, was not a performance. It was a weapon he whetted against men’s nerves.

Sixteen thousand moved in his wake: cohorts that knew how to drink without spilling, smith teams who could build a shoe with nothing but two bad nails and a promise, netters who slept with salt between their teeth so they would not forget what it could do. The column made little sound where it touched the world. The sound it made everywhere else was large.

Vorak had not brought mirror drums for song. He had not brought scent flags for vanity. He had brought a line of resonant glass that could read a man’s whisper as far as any mountain was honest and harder if it wasn’t. He had brought a chest of throat pendants tuned to the same stubborn pitch. He had brought his belief that plans were only good if they could survive a competent enemy.

The front runners found no white hair standing to be captured before lunch. They found no four vice generals sitting on their own pride. They found nothing that smelled like victory at a distance.

Vorak did not look surprised. Surprise was a thing he knew about and carried privately. He signaled. The line slowed a fraction and spread a hand’s width wider. Glass went up on a tripod. The clerk who could make sense of men’s words without making a face stood at the ready and did not swallow audibly.

"Call them," Vorak said.

The clerk touched iron to the rim in a pattern that tripped awake three ovals at once. The mica went from dull to attentive. Lines sharpened in nothingness and waited for a face.

"Vice General Skall," the clerk said. "Report."

Silence...

"Vice General Oru," the clerk said. "Report."

Silence... only this one had a small hiss in it like wind passing through the throat of a jar.

"Vice General Yavri," the clerk said. "Report."

A different silence answered. It was not the silence of a dead man. It was not the silence of a line cut by clever hands. It was the silence of a wall that would not answer a door knock because the house inside had decided to sleep.

Vorak’s jaw tightened. The only person close enough to name it as anger was himself.

"Vice General Mardek others...," the clerk continued, as if a script could save a day that did not want saving. "...they will be punished."

Vorak lifted one hand, two fingers only. The clerk stopped. The glass cooled back to being a rock no one wanted to write on.

"For the record," Vorak said, voice even, "this moment is a test of whether we are boys or something that deserves the word ’men.’"

He took the iron rod himself and tapped the rim twice more, not for the vice generals, but for a frequency meant to catch field runners, quartermasters, anyone who lived just beyond sight and existed to be found when a line needed glue.

Runners answered. Two had news. One had breath. The last had fear he did not voice until told.

"Speak," Vorak said.

The runner swallowed once and managed not to do it twice. "Sir... we met survivors."

Vorak did not move any part of his face that would have made other men feel they could help him by talking more. "From?"

"Mardek’s thousand," the runner said. "And some who were with Oru. We think Skall’s men too. Pieces."

"How many?" Vorak asked.

The runner’s eyes did what men’s eyes do when counting becomes apology. "Fewer than a hundred, sir," he said. "Scattered. The ones with eyes that still know what day it is say—"

He stopped. Vorak waited one breath. Two. He did not say "say it." He did not say "you will not like the sound you make if you try to swallow that sentence."

"They say the white hair killed the three," the runner got out in a rush that was not a stumble. "They say the wedge broke. They say Yavri took the last line away before it broke too and... and raised a cloth."

"A cloth," Vorak repeated. The words were neither interest nor disgust. "White."

The runner nodded. "Yes."

The last of the day’s calm was pelted with small stones until it lay down in the dust. Vorak put the iron back in the clerk’s hand as if he had never lifted it. He looked at the horizon where a mountain should be, and where it was, if a man knew how to watch a seam remember its old name.

"Bring the survivors," he said. "Not all at once. All at once makes cowards talk like poets. One at a time makes men talk like men."

"Sir," the clerk said.

Vorak motioned the quartermasters forward. They brought water and discipline. He stood while three men told three stories that were the same story. He did not interrupt. He did not have to. He asked precise questions when the men ran out of words. He named shapes for what they had described until those shapes became plans.

"He wears a crown that is a sound," one said.

"He grows larger," another said, hands outlining a chest that was already too large. "Armored like us but not us."

"He does not miss," the third said simply, and that sentence weighed more than the rest.

Vorak thanked them in the way you thank a man for cutting a splinter out of your palm. It had to be done. It was going to hurt. It was better now than later.

He turned to the clerk. "Write."

The clerk’s reed moved.