A stone jar containing twelve concealment pills clattered against Barnaby’s belt as the vanguard took formation.
Sera Thorne did not ask for a tactical map. She did not request an estimate of enemy numbers or calculate defensive arcs.
She simply turned to the eleven companions behind her and drew her spear.
“You heard the young master,” Sera said, her voice crisp and low. “Form a hollow square. Keep ten paces between files. We march across the causeway.”
“Wait, wait,” Deacon Vane wheezed, clutching a velvet chest against his ribs. “March? We are walking onto Moon Seven? There are forty heavy solar batteries mounted along that ridgeline!”
“Those batteries belong to the tax office,” Old Barnaby growled, pulling a wooden crate from the carriage. “And the tax office is about to receive an inspection.”
The old cook popped the cork from a flat stone jar.
Inside were twelve dark green pills, each etched with four pale rings that resembled dry soil. They gave off no fragrance, no warmth, and no spiritual hum.
