The iron ore rattled in the back of the wagon, a heavy, rhythmic reminder of our victory at Grey-Rock. But as the gates of Valmere closed behind us, the triumph felt strangely hollow. The gray carriage parked in the center of the quad was a silent sentinel, its polished surface reflecting the dying embers of the sunset. It didn't have the ostentatious gold of Blackwood's era; it had the cold, clinical sheen of a surgical theater.
"Don't unhitch the horses yet," I told Cael. My eyes were fixed on the silver scalpel crest on the carriage door. "Keep the tarp over the Vanguard. Mira, take the iron straight to the forge. Don't wait for an inventory."
"Armand, you're being paranoid," Gareth said, jumping down from the wagon. He was still high on the adrenaline of the mine mission. "We brought back enough oil to keep the lanterns burning until spring. Even the Ministry can't argue with—"
"The Ministry is gone, Gareth," I interrupted. "This is something else."
