Mia Frostine's POV
The fourth day since we secured the outpost began like any other—gray skies, tired soldiers, and silence that clung like fog to the bones. The corrupted haze still hadn't lifted, though patrols were steady and the reconstruction effort had begun. Each day bled into the next, a loop of drills, reports, and thin meals under thick tension.
Everyone kept busy, but the quiet was deceptive. Beneath it, something else brewed.
That morning, I sensed the shift even before it happened.
The air inside the mess hall felt charged—too still, too thick. Soldiers talked in hushed tones, casting glances at one particular table near the center. The platinum-guild heir, Loren Vance, sat there like he owned the outpost. His sharp uniform was barely wrinkled, his gear polished beyond necessity. Around him sat others from his platoon, most notably two other S-Rankers assigned to be his bodyguard on duty. Their eyes burned with entitlement.
