The *Iron Maidenhead*'s cannons, vast as foundry mouths, clicked and whirred, their targeting runes glowing a baleful emerald. Bresal, his body groaning under the strain of the G-forces, hung paralyzed while his view of the armored leviathan vanished behind Talasya’s round, completely uncomprehending stare. She looked less terrified, more mildly inconvenienced, as if a particularly large flock of migratory birds had just decided to cross her path. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, her voice thin against the wind’s howl. “Are those… new buoys? They’re terribly close to the flight path.” [Warning: Target's true fiancé approaches to claim his bride! Prepare for dramatic confrontation!] Bresal heard the mechanical chime shriek through his skull, distorted by roaring winds, and nearly choked on his tongue. *True fiancé? Is Varkhas getting married? And to whom? Not Talasya! Please, not Talasya!* The air around them hissed with charging battery coils. The handful of other flyers who had braved the upper spires scattered like skitter-bats, dive-bombing into cloud layers below until the draft muffled their yells. Only Talasya, her saffron Zenith coat flapping like a banner, remained drifting across the warship's line of fire. On the foredeck of the iron hulk, Lord Varkhas stood encased in spiked plate, hands clasped behind his spine. His squint tracked the trailing gang cutters, their crude rocket tubes still spitting slag behind the two tiny guild couriers, until his gaze snagged on the familiar splash of neon yellow. “The punctual one,” Varkhas rumbled, an abrupt red flush climbing his scarred throat. “My tea will cool if these pests delay her.” He turned to his gunnery captain, a woman encased in a skull visor. “Belay fire on the gliders. Sweep the *pursuers*. Obliterate those low-tier gutter vermin. Now.” The captain barked down a brass speaking horn. The primary batteries, which had been tracking Talasya, swung toward the raiders with a shrill grind of gears. Moments later, eight colossal siege bores spat out blinding ribbons of green plasma. Sky-planks and outboard thrusters vanished into boiling mist, the raiders shredded before their alarms could wail. “Oh, good!” Talasya chirped, adjusting her grip on her steering cables while looking up at the plating above. “They’re clearing the air for us! See, Bresal? I told you the dispatch master's new safety protocols would pay off.” Bresal could only gape, clutching his splintered harness. The brass interface screeched inside his skull once more, panicked and shrill. [System Alert: The ‘True Fiancé’ has been identified! He is Lord Varkhas! And he has mistaken his tea courier for his intended!] “What?!” Bresal shrieked into the crosswind. “He thinks *Talasya* is his bride? But the contract said *I* had to stop *her* from cheating on him! None of this tracks!” He whipped his head around, hunting for Tavok. The covert agent, wrestling his own glider through the wash, finally ripped away his Zenith work-smock to reveal dark, interlocking iron mail beneath. A snarling-hound crest was stamped over his breastplate, and his jaw set like an iron vise. “We’re almost there, Bresal,” Tavok shouted over the roar, slicing his airfoils close. “The parcel. The *Emperor’s Zenith*. Lord Varkhas demands delivery. I haven't rigged these flight paths just to watch you bungle it.” “Ruin what?!” Bresal yelled back, panic knotting his stomach. “You were helping *me*! You swore you'd clear my route to Sky-Master!” Tavok didn't bother to reply. He lunged, a sudden, powerful surge of his wing-rig, slamming into Bresal’s side. The impact sent Bresal’s rig spinning wildly for a moment, disorienting him. Tavok, using the momentum, hooked a leg around Bresal’s frame, pulling himself closer. An armored hand shot out, wrenching Bresal’s knuckles off the steering lever and locking his forearm tight. “Get off!” Bresal yelled, twisting against the iron vambrace. “What are you doing?!” “Securing the asset,” Tavok snarled, his eyes cold and focused. He was trying to pivot his own rig to get a direct line to Talasya, and more importantly, the ticking bomb strapped to her chest. “Your warlord is nearly victorious, and I will not let a bumbling fool like you jeopardize his final acquisition.” Bresal thrashed in the rigging. The prompt's red runes counted down in his vision: [Time Remaining: 00:00:18]. Soul rupture. Dispatch hall obliterated. He would turn to grease, while Talasya drifted ten paces away, admiring the clearing haze. “No!” Bresal snarled. Something snapped behind his ribs. He was inches from intercepting the cargo, satisfying the prompt, and preserving his own hide. He refused to let Tavok swipe the glory. With a sudden, furious lurch, Bresal bit down, hard, on Tavok’s armored hand. Not on the metal, but on the small gap between the wrist guard and the glove, sinking his teeth into the flesh beneath. Tavok gasped, a sharp, involuntary cry of pain. His grip loosened for a split second. That was all Bresal needed. He ripped his fingers free, kicked down on his primary thruster bar, and tipped into a reckless plunge. He ignored the warship's shadow, locking his descent on Talasya's back. The parcel. He had to snatch the parcel. The ground rushed up at them, a blur of city spires and wind-chiseled rock. Talasya, still humming a cheerful tune, looked up as Bresal plummeted toward her, a frantic, wild-eyed missile. She frowned, a mild expression of concern. “Oh, Bresal, are you alright? You’re flying awfully fast. You’ll ruin your punctuality record!” Just then, a stray scrap from the wrecked cutters whistled down through the downdraft. The jagged shard sheared clean across Talasya’s rotor cowling with a screech of shredding bronze. White fire sparked, oil vapor gushed, and her turbine died with a wet clunk. Talasya blinked, her brow bunching in mild bafflement. “My engine! It’s making a funny noise.” Her frame bucked and dipped nose-first, spiraling down through the empty airway. Talasya tugged her pitch cables in vain against dead gears. Spires, cloud banks, and the warship's hull rolled in sickening circles around her as she tumbled toward the canal levels below. Bresal dropped through her wake, the ticking brass canister on her chest blurring past his visor. He had reached her. The package, the Emperor’s Zenith, was within reach. But so was Talasya's outstretched hand, grasping at empty air.

Unmasking the Agent