Labour did not wait for a sanctuary.It took the war gallery, with its slit windows, its dead screens, its table still holding a traitor’s map and a coat that no longer meant safety. Sophia’s second wave hit before they had moved the physician from the floor. The clamp returned lower and meaner, a grinding closure that folded her over the wood. She went down on one knee because the alternative was the stone, and the stone was how mornings like this stole dignity.Aurora caught her.“We move you.”“To where?” Sophia’s mouth was full of metal again. “The hold is a target. The medical wing is a mouth that already spoke. This room has a door Raven can hold. That is the sanctuary now.”Another band cinched. Sophia’s breath tore. Sweat ran into her eyes. Through the slit, west fire still cracked across the terrace — not finished, only quieter, the ugly quiet of people regrouping. A runner appeared at the inner vein.“Beach is trying a second push. Pale coats behind a rifle screen. They want
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