The rain fell upon the Sunken Fissure not as clean mountain water. But as a greasy, ash-colored drizzle that left a thin film of soot across the oiled canvas of Arthur’s trench smock.
Arthur moved along the western outer edge comms trench, his boots sinking four inches into the churned dark rock sludge before striking the hard bedrock beneath. Beside him, Grimm walked with a low, hungry crouch, his black coat blending seamlessly with the wet shadows of the trench walls. On Arthur’s right shoulder, Pip remained tucked deep into the fleece lining of his collar, only his dark beak and sharp golden eyes protruding to scan the fog-slicked wire entanglements.
To their left lay No Man’s Land. A devastated two-half-mile expanse of cratered earth, shattered timber wooden support posts, and tangled thickets of razor wire. The air in this sector was noticeably heavier than near Command Dugout Three. The surrounding aether needle on Arthur’s wrist magnifying glass hovered at forty-four parts per million. It shook with a rapid, uneven pulse that signaled the nearby confluence of underground mana faults.
“Keep your head down, Pip,” Arthur murmured, adjusting the strap of his ARC-7 mag-carbine. “Rask’s mercenary towers have heat optics along the upper rim.”
