The descent from the frozen chasm to the floor of the gorge felt like stepping into the mouth of a roaring, gold-lit furnace.
Before them, nestled at the throat of the mountain pass, lay the vanguard camp of the Western Coalition. It was not a temporary settlement of tents; it was a sprawling, clinical fortress of white canvas and towering timber walls, erected with terrifying speed. Great iron braziers burned with a pale, chemical-gold flame, casting a sterile, blinding glare over the surrounding snow and mud. Overhead, tethered to massive iron pylons, three heavy Western assault skyships hovered like silent, bloated birds of prey, their searchlights sweeping the dark treeline.
"Keep your head down," Georgia whispered, her voice muffled and metallic through her silver visor. "Remember. You are a broken man. Give them nothing."
"I don't have to act," Corin muttered back, his teeth chattering violently under the heavy, stolen fur cloak. "I'm freezing to death."
As they neared the outer perimeter, the sharp, rhythmic clatter of iron boots echoed from the watchtower. Two vanguard sentinels—clad in the exact same pristine, white-and-gold armor as Georgia, their silver saint masks reflecting the cold gold firelight—stepped forward, their heavy halberds crossing with a sharp, metallic clack to block the path.
"Halt, sibling," the guard on the left commanded, his voice cold and flat. His gaze swept over Georgia’s scarred, soot-blackened breastplate. "Identify your unit. The western ridge patrol was accounted for an hour ago."
Georgia did not hesitate. She drew herself up to her full height, mimicking the rigid, arrogant posture of the Coalition soldiers she had watched from her high balcony in the Eastern capital.
"Vanguard Scout, Third Cohort," Georgia said, her tone carrying an icy, commanding authority that made the guard blink behind his visor. "We were ambushed by scavengers near the riverbank. My squad was scattered. I managed to secure the primary target."
She gave a sharp jerk on the hemp rope. Corin stumbled forward, playing his part perfectly as he collapsed to his knees in the wet slush, his head hanging low.
The guard stepped closer, lowering his halberd slightly to inspect Corin. He shoved the tip of his boot under Corin’s chin, forcing the young pilot’s face up into the sterile gold light.
"He doesn't look like a scavenger," the guard murmured, his eyes narrowing. "His hands are soft. No calluses from the woods."
"He isn't a scavenger," Georgia replied smoothly, her voice utterly devoid of warmth. "He is an imperial sky-pilot. I pulled him from the wreckage of a courier skiff that went down near the lower docks. He has information on the fleeing court members."
The two guards exchanged a quick, silent look. The mention of "fleeing court members" was the magic phrase. In the Coalition, tracking down the remnants of the Eastern royalty was a guaranteed ticket to a promotion—and the favor of the Oracle.
"The inquisitors are in the central pavilion," the second guard said, stepping back and raising his halberd. "But you’ll have to present him to the Centurion first. He’s organizing the transport of the high-value prisoners to the flagship."
"Understood," Georgia said.
She grabbed Corin by the collar of his fur cloak, dragging him up from the mud with a rough, convincing shove.
"Move, sky-rat."
The heavy timber gates of the vanguard camp groaned open, and Georgia stepped through, pulling her prisoner into the belly of the beast.