Behind the council doors, Allen watched a military commander drag the Gate marker across the southern foothills map.
"The boundary expanded again," the commander said, jabbing two fingers beside the newest ink circle.
"The Flint vanguard's failure left us less ground to contain it, and that ground keeps shrinking by the hour."
Wine glasses sat untouched near the marked approaches while the room weighed who would answer for the missing ground.
"Seven Shards at registration," he went on, tracing the report toward the disputed edge, "and the present instability demands a fresh inspection before anybody mistakes that entry for a promise."
Allen leaned forward to read the time scrawled under the last observation, hands kept well clear of the pieces.
"How long?"
The commander blinked at him, and Allen jerked his chin past the marker toward the officer.
"Give us the window before this table starts arguing over whose crest goes on the wagons."
