The metal of the skiff’s boiler was cold and stubborn, but fear made Corin’s hands quick. Working in the dark, they stripped the sleek brass dials, the heavy copper piping, and the iron-shod cleats, wrapping the heavy spoils into a sturdy piece of leftover canvas. "We're ready," Corin whispered, his voice hoarse as he hoisted the heavy, clinking sack over his good shoulder. The fur cloak he had stolen from the dead man smelled of old grease and wet dog, but it kept the biting mountain air from freezing his bones. "Move silently," Georgia murmured. She held the crude iron crossbow low, her finger resting lightly against the trigger. Without the ley-lines to guide them, they had to rely on the ancient, solid earth. She pointed away from the river, directing them straight up the steep, mud-slicked banks and into the suffocating density of the black pine forest. The climb was a brutal test of endurance. Without the artificial, perfect gravity of the palace, Georgia’s muscles burned with a raw, agonizing ache. Her thin-soled slippers slipped on the wet pine needles, forcing her to dig her bare fingers into the cold mud to pull herself upward. Her hands grew numb, the dirt packing beneath her nails, but she didn’t slow down. Behind them, the rushing of the turquoise river slowly faded, replaced by the deep, hollow sigh of the wind passing through the high canopy. They had been walking for what felt like hours when the forest suddenly changed. The towering pines began to thin, giving way to massive, moss-covered boulders that rose from the earth like the decaying teeth of some ancient beast. The air here was different—heavier, stagnant, and thick with the unmistakable, metallic scent of old blood and wet ash. "Georgia..." Corin breathed, stopping in his tracks. Through the gloom ahead, a faint, flickering amber light danced against the stone face of a massive cliffside. It wasn't the clean, brilliant light of the palace, nor was it the pale, sterile gold of the Coalition. It was a wild, smoky campfire. And around it, the low murmur of rough, guttural voices drifted through the trees. "We found his trail near the ridge," a harsh voice grumbled, the sound carrying easily through the cold air. "But he’s late. If that fool went down to the water alone and got himself drowned, I’m taking his share of the winter rations." Georgia slipped behind a mossy boulder, pulling Corin down beside her. Her chest rose and fell in silent, controlled breaths. It was the scavenger’s pack. She peered around the edge of the wet stone. There were three of them, just as the dead man had warned. They were gathered around a roasting spit, wrapped in the same grease-stained furs. At their sides hung heavy, notched hunting blades and short, sturdy bows. But what caught Georgia's eye wasn't the hunters—it was what lay on a flat stone just beyond the firelight. It was a broken, beautiful piece of white-and-gold armor, its surface scorched by fire. A helmet shaped like a weeping saint sat beside it, its cold silver face cracked down the middle. The Coalition's vanguard had already clashed with the surface dwellers. And the wilderness was already fighting back.

Chapter 14: The Forest’s Throat