The Tuesday morning walk to the civilian relay tower was a gruelling six-mile trek along a flat dirt road, with endless visibility in both directions. The winter air grew thick, tinged with the sharp scent of frozen pine and distant icy water. Sera moved at a stiff, mechanical pace, her mind methodically sorting through data, every step a calculated effort to maintain composure.
She was thinking about the gold-sealed Royal Transfer Record. She was thinking about the signature line: ‘Alpha Consort, Ashborne Pack’. She was thinking about her late mother at age twenty — long before Sera had ever existed — already being systematically documented, targeted, and managed by the crown.
She was analysing exactly what Luna Isadora had been so terrified of.
Thirty years ago, Isadora hadn't been af
