The south field smelled like iron and old frost.
Arthur spread the shadow network thin, moving it the way Roz had drilled into him across two weeks of courtyard sessions, shape first, no aetheric blood until the channel was built, then fill from the base upward. Not a flood. A seep. The network expanded outward from his feet in overlapping rings, following the natural geometry of shadows cast by distant fire pits, merging with their edges rather than fighting them.
Two months ago this had cost him half his reserve inside thirty seconds. Now it just cost him attention.
