The morning sun rose over Sector 7 with a spotless, crystal-clear bright glare that washed the northern mountains in ribbons of pale rose and gold.
On the clean, scrubbed flat stone slabs of the Artisan Guildhall courtyard, a high-speed military steam-cutter—painted in the gleaming white-and-navy livery of the Federal Vanguard High Board—sat idling with a soft, high-pressure hum. Two ritual border sentries stood at the gangway. Their polished silver axe-spears were held at strict attention.
Arthur Vance stood before the full assembly of Sector 7’s leadership, his gear packed and inspected for long-distance transit.
His ARC-7 Mag-Carbine was secured in a heavy leather travel sword sheath across his shoulders, its charge bank banks fully charged. Its heavy was dark metal-hardened carbon-iron barrel oiled and gleaming. His dual 9.5-inch heavy dark metal stilettos were strapped to his right thigh in custom molded leather sheaths. At the same time, his newly issued Silver Vanguard Scout Star shone brilliantly on the lapel of his tailored blue coat.
Standing at his side was the evolved Silver Triad:
Grimm, measuring eight feet from his black snout to the tip of his muscular tail, stood like a statue of living black glass. His silver-steel-composite canines gleamed faintly as he surveyed the courtyard with calm, hungry dominance, his heavy frame exuding the rock-steady confidence of an apex direhound.
