The sun barely touched the sea, still smothered by long, heavy clouds that painted the horizon in layers of ash and bruised purple.
Three Ravenspears cut through the early mist, spread across wide arcs like sentinels. Engines low-throttled for endurance. Radio silence by order. Only the rhythm of the propellers and the faint creak of metal against cold air filled the cockpits.
Amalia led the highest arc, her breath fogging slightly inside the insulated canopy. Below her, Rena and Hartwell patrolled in their staggered formations.
There were no enemy contacts.
Not yet.
Only the wide, sleeping world—and the knowledge that somewhere, someone was trying to wake it into fury.
"Maintain course," Amalia murmured to herself. "No provocations."
In the distance, far below, she spotted a convoy: six merchant ships crawling toward the Aurenne harbors, their smoke stacks thin and white against the water.
Ordinary.
Innocent.
For now.
Port-Luthair — Air Corps Forward Command
