The weight of the armor was a physical entity, a cold, unyielding hand pressing down on Georgia’s shoulders. Every movement was accompanied by the quiet, heavy click of gears and the dull scraping of gold-trimmed steel.
She held the helmet of the weeping saint in her hands, staring into its hollow, reflective eyes.
"Now," Georgia said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline hammering in her chest. "The rope, Corin."
Corin picked up the coarse hemp rope they had salvaged from the scavengers' gear. His hands were still cold, his fingers stiff as he wrapped the rough fibers around his own wrists. He tied the slipknot Georgia had instructed—loosely wrapped to look tight from a distance, but structured so that a sharp, sudden pull would unravel the binding instantly.
"If they ask," Corin muttered, his eyes darting toward the dark woods, "I’m just a pilot from the lower-ring skiff. I don’t know anything about the high court."
"You know enough to be valuable," Georgia replied. "And valuable assets are kept alive. If they think you're just a stray, they’ll put a bolt through your throat before we even cross the perimeter."
She lifted the silver helmet. The metal was freezing as it slid past her cheeks, the scent of stagnant air and old polish instantly sealing her inside. As the collar seal engaged with a heavy, pressurized clack, the world outside became a narrow, clinical grid. Her breathing echoed loudly inside the metallic chamber, a rhythmic, trapped sound.
"How do I look?" she asked.
Behind the silver visor, her voice was unrecognizable. It was flat, mechanical, and entirely devoid of the melodic warmth that had once defined the Songbird of the Eastern Court. It sounded like the faceless oppressors who had broken her world.
Corin took a step back, his pale face draining of what little color it had left. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The sheer, chilling terror in his eyes was confirmation enough. To him, the girl who had wept in the ruins of the skiff had vanished. In her place stood a silent vanguard soldier of the Western Coalition.
"Good," Georgia said through the metal grate. "Now, we move. If we meet the other two on the trail, you let me do the talking. Do not break character."
She grabbed the end of the hemp rope, giving it a firm, authoritative tug. Corin stumbled forward, his head automatically lowering as he fell into the role of the defeated prisoner.
They stepped out of the basin, leaving the unconscious scavenger and the dying embers of the fire behind. The darkness of the pine forest swallowed them instantly, the thick canopy blotting out the faint moonlight.
The trail down the mountain was steep and treacherous. Georgia’s boots, reinforced with heavy iron soles, slipped on the wet pine needles and frozen mud. Every step required immense physical effort; without the active biometrics to assist the armor's joint gears, she was manually hauling sixty pounds of steel with her own muscles. Her thighs burned, and the heavy collar piece chafed against her collarbone, but she did not slow down.
Suddenly, a low, wet whistle echoed through the dark trees to their left.
Georgia froze, her armored hand instantly tightening on the rope, pulling Corin to a halt behind her. Through the narrow slits of her visor, she scanned the dense brush.
A shadow detached itself from a massive trunk. It was the leader of the scavengers, his heavy machete reflecting the faint, gray light of the misty forest. A few paces behind him, Marcus followed, his hand resting on his hip where his iron-jawed pistol was holstered.
"Tyler?" the leader called out, his voice low and suspicious. He squinted through the gloom, his eyes locking onto the towering, white-and-gold silhouette standing in the middle of the trail.
He stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes traveled from the pristine silver mask of the weeping saint down to the bound prisoner standing in the shadows behind her.
"What in the hell..." Marcus whispered, his hand sliding slowly toward his holster.
Georgia did not draw her weapon. Instead, she took a single, heavy step forward, the iron of her boots crunching loudly on a fallen branch. She drew herself up to her full height, her shoulders broad, her posture radiating the cold, absolute authority of the Coalition.
"Identify yourselves," Georgia commanded, her voice dropping into a harsh, metallic bark that echoed off the damp trunks. "This sector is under active vanguard quarantine. State your unit or be declared hostile agents of the Eastern rebellion."
The two scavengers flinched. The raw, mechanical weight of her voice, combined with the terrifying reputation of the Coalition’s elite scouts, instantly broke their confidence. They were simple wolves of the woods, used to preying on the weak and the broken—not facing down the armored fist of the West.
"We... we're just scouts, sibling," the leader stammered, lowering his machete slightly. His eyes darted to Corin, then back to Georgia’s faceless visor. "We were clearing the ridge. We didn't know the vanguard had already reached this far north."
"Your presence here is a violation of the imperial border decree," Georgia lied smoothly, her tone cold and unyielding. "I have secured a high-value asset from the wreckage. I am returning him to the vanguard camp for immediate processing. Clear the path, or I will write your executions into the ledger."
Marcus swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he pulled it completely away from his pistol. He nudged the leader’s shoulder. "Boss... let's go. We don't want any part of this. The Westerners don't take prisoners who talk back."
The leader stared at Georgia for one more agonizing second, trying to pierce the dark visor of the weeping saint. But there was nothing to see—only the cold, polished reflection of his own fear.
"Our apologies, sibling," the leader muttered, stepping off the trail into the thick brush. "The ridge is yours."
Georgia didn't give them another word. She jerked the rope, dragging Corin past them without a single glance. She kept her pace steady and rhythmic, her heavy boots striking the earth with a slow, deliberate thunder until the shadows of the two scavengers had completely faded into the frozen fog behind them.
Only then did she allow herself a shallow, ragged breath.
They were alive. But the gates of the vanguard camp were now looming in the valley below, and the real test was about to begin.