The inner curtain wall of Sector 7 didn’t smell of burning pitch or burst hard shell. It smelled of cold river marble, polished brass fittings, and cedar smoke drifting from private guardhouse fire bowls. While the lower outer edge drowned beneath three feet of bitter-salt slurry and shredded dark rock, the gold-trimmed drop-gate dividing the Upper Walkway from the heavy-duty wards remained dry, gleaming, and hermetically sealed.
Behind twenty feet of dwarven-hewn cut stone, two full platoons of House Vance house-dragoons stood at ease, their ritual breastplates lacquered in deep cobalt enamel. At their center, leaning heavily against the heavy stone railing with folded arms, stood Cadet Champion Julian Vance. Beside him, crouching on a broad granite pediment, the frost drake Glacies curled its pale blue neck, frost-rimed breath hissing rhythmically through serrated nostrils. Every time the beast shifted its weight, its right rear stifle gave a subtle, unnatural hitch. A hardened reminder of the shattered joint Arthur had pried apart during the country arena trials.
Below the closed iron grille, a desperate assembly of nearly four hundred dockhands, foundry laborers, and wounded volunteers clustered in the narrow approach alley. They carried shattered tools, blood-soaked burlap bandages, and children wrapped in grease-stained heavy cloaks. At the front of the civilian press stood Arthur Vance, his ARC-7 rifle slung low across his chest on a tactical harness. He was flanked by Toby Mallow and his stout spotted burrow-hog Barnaby.
