The interior of the vanguard camp was a clinical, terrifying machine.
There was no laughter here, no idle chatter. Hundreds of white-armored soldiers moved in silent, perfect synchronicity, their footsteps a dull, rhythmic thud against the packed mud and timber planks. The air smelled of sulfur, burning oil, and the sharp, chemical tang of the gold-fire braziers that illuminated the compound.
Georgia kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, navigating the labyrinth of white tents and iron-tethered supply crates. Through the narrow slits of her silver helmet, she watched for any sign of suspicion, but the soldiers passed them by without a second glance. To them, she was just another nameless cog in the great wheel of the Coalition, delivering yet another piece of broken scrap to the inquisitors.
But as they neared the central pavilion, the clinical silence of the camp was broken by a sound that made Georgia's blood run cold.
It was a low, collective groan of despair.
Behind a high barrier of spiked iron wooden stakes, a massive holding pen had been erected. Inside, crammed together like livestock, were dozens of Eastern citizens and lower-ring nobles. Their fine silk garments were torn, their faces smeared with soot and tears. Many were wounded, shivering violently in the damp, freezing mountain air.
"Georgia..." Corin whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at the prisoners.
"Keep moving," Georgia commanded through her teeth, her metallic voice cut with a harsh warning. "Look away."
She didn't look away, though. Her violet eyes scanned the desperate faces behind the iron spikes, searching, calculating. She saw the despair, but she also saw something else—a simmering, volatile spark of resentment. These were people who had survived the fall of their world, only to be put in chains by a new master. If a fire were lit here, it would burn the entire camp to the ground.
At the center of the pavilion stood a massive, elevated wooden platform, dominated by a heavy iron desk. Standing behind it was an imposing figure clad in ornate, deep gold armor. He wore no helmet, revealing a scarred, severe face with closely cropped gray hair and eyes as hard as flint.
Centurion Malakor.
Beside his desk, heavily chained to an iron post, was a young woman in a torn emerald gown. Georgia recognized her instantly—it was Lady Livia, one of the primary handmaidens of the Eastern Court.
"Your scouts are late, Centurion," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the shadow of the pavilion canopy.
A figure stepped forward into the gold firelight. He was dressed in flowing, pristine white robes that dragged on the muddy boards, a heavy silver medallion of a blindfolded saint resting against his chest. An Inquisitor of the Three Crowns.
"The Oracle’s patience is not infinite," the Inquisitor continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "We have confirmed the Songbird Princess survived the descent. Her skiff was seen falling toward the northern ridge. If she is not found before the flagship departs, the Oracle will hold you personally responsible."
"My patrols are combing every inch of the gorge, Inquisitor," Malakor grunted, his hand resting on the pommel of his massive broadsword. "The girl is fragile. She won't survive a night in these woods. If she isn't already dead, she will be by dawn."
"She is not dead," the Inquisitor hissed. "She is a master of deceit. Do not underestimate the prey."
Georgia stood at the edge of the pavilion, her fingers tightening around Corin’s hemp rope. She could feel her heartbeat accelerating, a cold, sharp thrill of danger coursing through her veins.
She was standing less than twenty paces from the men orchestrating her hunt.
"Report, soldier," Malakor’s booming voice suddenly cut through her thoughts.
The Centurion’s flint-like eyes had locked onto Georgia’s scarred, soot-blackened armor. He gestured toward Corin, who had instinctively shrunk back into his stolen fur cloak.
"What do you have there?" Malakor demanded.
Georgia took a deep, steadying breath. She stepped forward onto the wooden platform, dragging Corin with her, and saluted with a sharp, iron-like precision.
"Vanguard Scout, Third Cohort," Georgia announced, her voice perfectly mimicking the flat, cold resonance of a Coalition zealot. "I have secured a high-value asset near the lower riverbank, Centurion. An imperial sky-pilot from the crashed courier vessel."
She shoved Corin forward, forcing him to his knees at the foot of the desk.
"He has the layout of the Eastern court's escape routes," Georgia lied smoothly, her silver mask glinting under the gold firelight. "And he knows exactly where the Songbird is hiding."