The capital of Orosk, was cold even in spring. Snow lined the rooftops in thin crusts, and the rivers still carried fragments of ice drifting like slow knives. Inside the dim halls of the Ministry of External Affairs, the temperature was warmer—but only barely.
Lord Pavel Orlov, Director of the Oroskan Intelligence Bureau, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and leaned over a table covered in sketches, notes, and a single grainy photograph.
It was a photo of the Hawkfire.
Taken from over a mile away, the image was blurred at the edges, but unmistakable. The swept wings, the twin-engine mount, the impossible silhouette of a machine meant for the heavens. And yet—it had flown. The agent who captured the photo hadn't returned.
Across from Orlov, a woman in a fur-lined coat sat with her legs crossed, eyes scanning the image with slow calculation.
"So it's true," she murmured in a clipped accent. "Elysea has broken the air."
