Mist swirled in slow, deliberate coils, dulling every color to pewter and ash. It muffled hooves, swallowed the clink of mail, and turned breath into drifting ghosts. If someone had stood on the overlook cliffs, they might have seen nothing but a gray sea lapping silently at dark tree trunks. Yet within that sea, Wilhelmina's quiet orders drew ripples of life.
She moved like a needle through cloth, stitching the column's ragged façade. Every few paces she paused to kneel beside a soldier and muddy a too-bright breastplate, or tug loose a strap so a shield drooped convincingly. Her hands were brisk, efficient—yet the touch lingered just long enough to calm nerves. One young spearman gulped as she smeared grime across the crest on his helm.
"Lower your chin," she murmured, voice pitched so only he heard. "Think about the time your mother scolded you in front of neighbors—yes, that face. Shame, not fear."
