Caldre Strait — Early Morning Mist
The air was thicker today.
The usual pale mist that clung to the strait had deepened into a rolling fog, swallowing the horizon in shifting curtains of gray. Ravenspear Flight Four held their course, engines purring steadily as they carved unseen paths above the waves.
Amalia adjusted her oxygen mask slightly, glancing at her altimeter. Holding at twelve thousand feet. Enough to stay above the worst turbulence—but low enough to keep the merchant convoys within distant view.
"Formation holding," Rena's voice crackled over the headset. "No visual on any new Veles sightings."
"Understood," Amalia replied. She glanced left through the curved glass of her canopy.
Somewhere out there, the serpent watched.
And it was waiting.
They all were.
Port-Luthair — Air Corps Strategic Tent
Bruno stood over the latest aerial photos, freshly developed and still curling at the edges from the chemical baths.
