The morning sun bled across the horizon, casting long crimson rays over the snow-dusted canopy of the border pines.
Inside the captured command tent, the air had shifted from the cold stench of fear to the quiet, rhythmic bustle of a secured position.
Outside, forty rescued refugees—wrapped in thick wool blankets and clutching wooden bowls of hot broth provided by the executioner corps—were already being loaded into cushioned supply carriages for their safe transit back to Ironclad Citadel.
Nora sat at the head of the oak map table, a fresh sheet of heavy, gold-trimmed parchment laid flat before her.
She held a smooth silver quill, her dark blue velvet sleeves pushed up to reveal the radiant, steady golden pulse of the Moon Queen mark on her left wrist. Beside her, Cassian stood with
