The war room smelled of old clay and lamp oil. The map on the wall had been marked and re-marked so many times that the charcoal lines had begun to blur together, a palimpsest of strategies considered and discarded. Hector stood before it, his arms crossed, his eyes moving over the coastline as if he could will the answers to appear.
Miros was beside him. Lysander stood near the window, where the morning light fell in a pale rectangle across the stone floor. They had been here since dawn.
"The northern beach," Hector said. "That's where they hit hardest. They knew it was the weakest point. Open ground, easy landing, direct access to the settlement."
"The barricade held," Miros said.
