The silence that followed her declaration was deafening, heavy enough to drown out the low groans from the prisoner pens.
At the foot of the desk, Corin kept his head pressed almost to the damp timber planks, his shoulders shaking. It wasn't entirely an act—the raw, absolute authority radiating from Centurion Malakor and the freshly overheard secrets of her own horrific destiny made Georgia's chest feel like it was being crushed under an iron vice.
Malakor leaned over his heavy desk, his flint-like eyes narrowing as they bored into Corin’s back, then slowly rose to study Georgia’s scarred, white-and-gold armor.
"An imperial pilot," the Centurion grunted, his hand tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the hilt of his broadsword. "Most of the sky-rats we pulled from the wreckage were dead or babbling. You’re saying this one is coherent?"
"He was terrified enough to speak, Centurion," Georgia replied, her metallic voice steady, echoing with a flat, soldierly coldness inside her silver helmet. "He was navigating the slip-streams for the inner circle. He knows the coordinates of the emergency safe-havens on the surface."
Beside the desk, the white-robed Inquisitor stepped forward. His pale, delicate hands emerged from his long sleeves, his fingers tracing the silver medallion of the blindfolded saint. He glided toward Corin like a shadow, his eyes fixed on the young man’s trembling form.
"Let me look at him," the Inquisitor murmured, his voice a soft, venomous purr. He reached down, his fingers pinching Corin’s chin and forcing his head up. He studied the young pilot's face, then turned his gaze up to Georgia. "A pilot is a valuable tool, yes. But the mind of a heretic is a labyrinth. They lie as easily as they breathe."
The Inquisitor let go of Corin, wiping his fingers on his silk robes as if the touch had soiled him. He stepped closer to Georgia, his eyes searching the narrow slits of her silver visor.
"You say your squad was scattered by scavengers near the riverbank, sibling," the Inquisitor said softly. "Which path did you take back to the camp?"
Georgia did not falter. She had spent months studying the geography of the northern borderlands from Reginald's maps, and she knew the layout of the valley like the back of her hand.
"The eastern ridge trail, Inquisitor," Georgia answered instantly. "The lower gorge was choked with fog and unstable gravity run-off from the fallen western seal. The ridge was the only secure route to maintain custody of the asset."
The Inquisitor stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. The tension in the pavilion stretched like a tight bowstring. Behind her visor, Georgia's eyes were icy and unblinking, her finger resting just inches from the hidden hunting knife at her waist. If he suspected even a fraction of the truth, she would have to kill them both before the guards could react.
Slowly, the Inquisitor's lips curved into a cold, thin smile.
"A logical choice," he murmured, turning back to Malakor. "Take them both to the interrogation tents. If the pilot’s coordinates match our aerial scouts' reports, we will have the Songbird caged before the flagship departs."
"Take him," Malakor ordered, waving a dismissive hand. "And see to it that your armor is repaired, soldier. The Third Cohort does not walk the camp looking like salvaged scrap."
"Understood, Centurion," Georgia said, saluting with rigid, clinical precision.
She grabbed Corin by his collar, dragging him to his feet with a rough, convincing yank. She turned and began to lead him away from the platform, her boots clattering rhythmically against the wooden boards.
But as she stepped past the chained Lady Livia, the handmaiden’s tear-stained eyes briefly locked onto the silver mask of the weeping saint. Livia’s gaze drifted down to the hem of Georgia’s stolen armor—where a tiny, overlooked scrap of ivory silk from her ruined gown still clung to the inner leather straps of her thigh guard.
Livia’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened with a sudden, wild shock of recognition.
Georgia saw the realization dawn on the handmaiden’s face. She didn't break her stride, but she let her hand drift subtly to her side, her fingers lightly tapping the cold steel of her breastplate in a slow, deliberate warning.
Silence.
Livia swallowed hard, her trembling lips pressing into a tight, desperate line. She looked down at the floor, her shoulders shaking as she began to weep again, keeping the secret locked behind her teeth.
Georgia pulled Corin into the shadows of the central pathway, the cold adrenaline humming in her ears. They had survived the first test. But the flagship was preparing to launch, and their time was rapidly running out.