Samaryn Ascension — Prelude II
The Strategist
Reedglass would already be cold.
Satyen said it without looking up.
In the capital, the air was only beginning to turn. Valen Cor’s winters arrived politely—through damp stone, through a softness in the light, through servants muttering about draft and coal. But Reedglass, crouched near the highland shoulders, took winter like a blow. Frost would have found its rooftops weeks ago. The river there would breathe steam at dawn. Horses would stamp harder in their stalls.
“It is not winter here,” Satyen murmured, rolling the seal fragment between his fingers, “but it is winter there.”
They stood in his private chamber overlooking the lower administrative quarter. The window was open a finger’s width. Enough for air. Not enough for sound to escape.
Across the room, half in shadow where the wall met a tall column, stood Isera.
She had positioned herself where the lamplight could not fully claim her. It was a habit so consistent it had become ritual. A thin veil draped from her hairline to just below her cheekbones—not opaque, but distorting. The human instinct was to search for eyes when listening. Isera denied that instinct as a matter of discipline. Even in confidence, even alone with Satyen, she protected her face as if it were state property.
Her official title was Chief of Civic Coordination.
A post invented to justify her proximity.
Her real function required no announcement.
Satyen unfolded the intelligence warning again. He had already read it twice. He was not reading it now for information.
He was reading it for authorship.
“A caravan from Reedglass,” he said idly, “in good weather, unburdened, can reach Valen Cor in eight days. Ten if the river roads are thick with mud. Twelve if the passes argue.”
He glanced up, not to meet Isera’s eyes—she did not offer them—but to confirm she was listening.
“A courier,” he continued, “can make it in
