A black-lacquered iron carriage bearing the silver-scythe crest of the Imperial Censorate rolled onto the eastern bluff two hours before midnight.
Six armored demonic steeds pulled the heavy coach, their iron hooves ringing sharply against the hard salt crust. When the carriage halted, four personal guards in spiked red armor leaped down, unfurling a thick carpet of white wolf pelt across the dusty ground.
Array-Inspector Lu stepped down into the cold desert wind.
He was a slender man with sharp cheekbones, dressed in high-collared velvet robes embroidered with silver astrolabes. An early-stage Nascent Soul aura radiated from his body, cold, rigid, and steeped in imperial arrogance.
General Dravus walked out to meet him, his scorched armor smelling faintly of burnt salt-pitch.
“Inspector Lu,” Dravus said, giving a curt, stiff nod. “I expected you two days ago.”
“I was delayed by administrative inquiries in the third province,” Lu said, waving an ivory hand dismissively. “The Ministry of War is deeply displeased with your progress, General. You have spent thirty days, three thousand cavalrymen, and fifty barrels of pitch trying to smoke out a handful of ducal deserters.”
Dravus’s jaw tightened until the iron rivets on his helmet creaked. “The rebels possess an alchemical grandmaster. They reversed the chimney draft and destroyed two of our three Resonance Drums.”
