The roar of factory machinery and thick plumes of smoke once again choked the ashen sky over the Iron Empire's capital.
However, the atmosphere inside the mid-level detention cells of The Iron Citadel felt entirely different this morning.
The passive tension of death row inmates was gone. The air inside the steel cell vibrated with absolute vigilance.
The Northreach delegation moved with a sharper, more purposeful rhythm.
CLACK! CREAK!
The steel door swung open much earlier than the scheduled ration distribution.
Harsh light from the corridor pierced through, framing the silhouette of an Inquisition officer in a pitch-black uniform. His face was deadpan, as if every emotional nerve had been forcefully ripped out.
"Get ready," the officer ordered dryly. "You are being taken to the briefing room. Princess Anastasia Velthorne is waiting."
In the corner of the room, Roland Sudrath stood up.
