The scavenger stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the discarded pool of ivory silk. To a man of the wilds, a scrap of imperial fabric was worth a winter’s supply of grain—or the attention of the wrong people. He reached down, his dirt-caked fingers hovering just inches from the lace. "Now," Georgia breathed. Corin didn’t think; panic turned his muscles to steel. He lunged from the shadow of the hull, throwing his entire weight forward and swinging the heavy brass wrench in a desperate, arc-like strike. Crack. The heavy brass connected squarely with the scavenger's right knee. The man let out a choked, wet gasp as his leg buckled beneath him. The crossbow discharged uselessly into the gravel, the iron bolt skipping off the stones and splashing into the dark river. But he was a survivor of the northern wilds, hardened by years of brutality. Even as he crashed to the stones, he snarled, swinging a heavy, fur-clad fist that caught Corin across the jaw, sending the young pilot sprawling into the shallow water. With his left hand, the scavenger clawed at a jagged hunting knife strapped to his thigh. He never got to draw it. Georgia moved like a specter slipping through the pines. Before the man could pull the blade, she was on him. She didn't have the brute strength of a soldier, but she possessed a cold, surgical precision. She seized the heavy iron barrel of the discharged crossbow from the stones, using the stirrup as a lever to pin his throwing arm to the gravel. With her other hand, she snatched a sharp, jagged piece of shattered copper plating—remnants of the skiff's broken boiler—and pressed the raw, metallic edge directly against the soft skin of his throat. The scavenger went entirely rigid. The snarl died in his chest, replaced by a ragged, shallow wheeze. He looked up, and through the slits of his rough leather mask, his eyes widened. In the dim light of the dying sky, Georgia’s pale lavender-white hair and striking, cold violet eyes made her look less like a princess and more like an ancient, vengeful spirit of the woods. "Quiet," Georgia whispered. Her voice was incredibly soft, almost gentle, but the edge of the copper plate bit just a fraction deeper into his skin. A tiny bead of dark red blood welled against the metal. "If you scream, I will slide this steel until you can only whisper." The man swallowed hard, his chest heaving. He slowly let go of the knife’s hilt, his hands splaying flat against the wet gravel in a gesture of absolute surrender. "Who are you hunting?" Georgia asked. "No... no one," the man rasped, his voice rough and dry as gravel. "Just... salvage. We saw the fire in the sky. The floating mountain... it’s falling apart. Everyone in the borderlands knows. The scrap... the survivors... they’re worth coin." "Who is paying?" "The white coats," he squeezed out, his eyes darting to the sharp copper in her hand. "The Coalition. They’re setting up camps at the base of the pass. They’re paying gold for any high-borns pulled from the wreckage. Especially... especially the Songbird." Georgia’s expression didn't change, but her mind instantly cataloged the information. The Oracle’s net was already spreading. "How many of you are in these woods?" she demanded. "Just... just my pack. Three others. Downriver," he stammered, his pride entirely gone. "They’re expecting me back by midnight. If I don't show, they'll come looking." Georgia stood over him, the freezing wind tugging at her torn cloak. She looked at Corin, who was slowly pulling himself up from the shallows, clutching his bruised jaw and shivering violently. Then she looked back down at the scavenger. If she let him go, he would lead his pack straight to their position. If she kept him captive, he was a liability they couldn't afford to feed or watch. "Georgia..." Corin whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at the sharp piece of metal in her hand. "What do we do?" Georgia didn't answer immediately. She looked up at the sky, where the distant, burning ruins of her old home still cast a faint, tragic glow over the mountain peaks. She had survived the grand tragedy of the court. She had survived the fall of a king. She was not going to die in the dirt. She slowly leaned down, her lips brushing close to the scavenger's ear. "You should have stayed in the shadows," she murmured. Before the man could even gasp, Georgia’s hand moved with absolute, unblinking finality.

Chapter 12: The Price of Silence