The separation was swift, brutal, and entirely expected.
The moment Centurion Malakor barked his assent, two heavy-armored vanguard guards stepped forward. One grabbed Corin by his bound arms, dragging him backward off the wooden pavilion toward the low, muddy undercroft where the high-value prisoners were kept under iron lock.
"Wait—" Corin gasped, catching Georgia's faceless visor for a fraction of a second before a heavy hand slammed into his shoulder, forcing him down the dark wooden steps.
Georgia did not move. She stood like a stone statue, her gloved hand resting flat against the grip of her scabbard.
"You," the white-robed Inquisitor murmured, pointing a pale, ringless finger at Georgia's chest. "Your armor is a disgrace to the Three Crowns, but your reflexes are passable. Stand watch outside the war-tent. The Centurion and I have a transmission to decipher, and I do not want the lesser cohorts mingling near the receiver."
"By the light of the Saint," Georgia replied, saluting with a sharp, hollow clink of her gauntlet.
She marched three paces behind them as they retreated into the heavy, double-layered canvas of the command tent. She took her post directly outside the entrance flap, her heavy boots planted wide, her halberd held rigidly at her side. To any passing soldier, she was a mindless pillar of white-and-gold steel.
But inside the silver helmet, Georgia was pressing her ear close to the thick canvas, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide in the dark.
Through the heavy fabric, the voices of the Inquisitor and Centurion Malakor drifted, muffled but distinct. The sharp, rhythmic clicking of a long-range brass telegraph machine began to chatter.
"The Oracle's cipher is deep tonight," Malakor’s low growl came first. "What does the transmission say, Inquisitor? Have they secured the southern border?"
There was a long pause, the rustle of heavy parchment, and the dry, scraping sound of the Inquisitor's quill.
"The southern border is irrelevant," the Inquisitor whispered, his voice carrying a cold, fanatical fervor. "The Oracle does not seek a political surrender, Centurion. The 'Songbird' is not being hunted to stand trial."
Georgia’s chest tightened. She leaned closer, the cold metal of her visor pressing against the wet canvas.
"Then why the chase?" Malakor asked, the leather of his chair groaning as he leaned forward. "If she is just a princess of a fallen line, we could have executed her in the palace gardens and saved three cohorts of scouts."
"Because her voice is not a mere instrument, you fool," the Inquisitor hissed. "The Mavis bloodline carries the harmonic resonance of the old world's gravity anchors. If she dies a normal death, the sky-lanes over the Eastern reach will collapse into chaotic rifts. The Oracle needs her alive... so they can graft her into the central core of the Western Cathedral."
A chill, far colder than the mountain wind, pierced Georgia's chest.
"A living anchor," the Inquisitor continued, his voice dripping with terrifying satisfaction. "They will sever her tongue, bind her nervous system directly to the silver-oil regulators, and use her heartbeat to permanently lock the Eastern skies under Western rule. She will sing for eternity, Centurion. But she will never speak another word."
Outside, Georgia's fingers tightened on the shaft of her halberd until the iron joints of her gauntlets creaked.
Meanwhile, in the wet, freezing dark of the camp’s lower holding cells, Corin was shoved headfirst onto a heap of rotting straw.
The iron grate slammed shut behind him with a deafening clang, leaving him in near-total darkness. The mud beneath him was freezing, smelling of rust and stagnation. He scrambled backward, his bound hands scraping against the rough stone wall of the undercroft.
"Quiet down, sky-rat," a raspy, coughing voice muttered from the shadows of the cell.
Corin blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim, amber glow of a distant gold-fire brazier bleeding through the wooden floorboards above.
Sitting in the corner, chained to a heavy iron ring, was an old man. His once-proud blue uniform of the Eastern Sky-Fleet was torn to shreds, his chest wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. His skin was gray, his breathing wet and shallow. He was dying.
"An... imperial uniform," Corin breathed, sliding closer. "You’re a fleet mechanic."
The old man let out a weak, self-deprecating laugh that ended in a wet cough. "Was. Before the sky fell. Who are you, boy? Another casualty of the slip-streams?"
"I’m Corin. I was piloting a courier skiff when the seals broke," Corin whispered urgently, looking back toward the iron grate. He leaned closer to the old mechanic. "Listen to me. I don't have much time. I need to know how to override the gravity core on a Western flagship. The Iron Saint."
The old mechanic stared at him through bloodshot eyes, a cynical sneer crossing his pale lips. "Hijack a Western war-vessel? You're mad, boy. They use closed-loop magnetic winches. If you try to lift off with the cables attached, the tension will snap the keel like a dry twig."
"I know," Corin said, his voice desperate. "But there has to be a bypass. A thermal dump. Something to force the core's lift-capacity past the threshold of the magnetic locks."
The old man studied Corin's face for a long, silent moment. He saw the genuine, terrified determination in the young pilot's eyes. Slowly, the mechanic leaned his head back against the cold stone, a grim smile touching his face.
"A crown-bypass," the old man whispered, his voice growing weaker. "They keep the emergency core-vent on a manual pressure wheel in the lower engine room. If you turn it... three full rotations to the right, you bypass the safety restrictors. The core will scream, boy. It will dump raw, unrefined gravity-well fuel into the upward thrusters."
Corin memorized the words, his heart hammering. "Three rotations to the right. What about the stabilizers?"
"They'll blow," the mechanic rasped, his eyes slowly closing. "You'll rise like a stone shot from a catapult. But the sheer upward draft... it will shear those magnetic cables clean off the pylons. Just... keep her nose pointed up, pilot. Don't let her stall in the clouds."
"Thank you," Corin whispered.
Above them, the heavy timber boards creaked. The sound of heavy iron boots descended the wooden stairs.
The cell door swung open, and a vanguard guard pointed a gloved finger at Corin. "Up, prisoner. The Inquisitor is ready for you."
Corin pulled himself to his feet, his mind racing with the sequence. As he was dragged back out into the freezing rain, he saw Georgia waiting in the shadows of the corridor, her faceless silver visor reflecting the sterile gold light.
They had the keys to the sky. Now, they just had to survive the walk to the executioner's chair.