The wheels ground over loose stones with a teeth-grating creak.
Thomas sat in the jolting carriage, slipping his fingers inside his visibly well-worn clerical robe and rubbing the silver emblem with his fingertips.
Its surface was pitted, with no gemstones set into it, and its edges had been polished bright by years of wear. Compared with the Pontifical Court's modern Holy Emblems, inlaid with gold and jade and practically screaming "I'm rich," it looked as shabby as scrap from a blacksmith's shop.
But this emblem was closer to the Lord-or, rather, closer to the true source.
It was a treasure passed down through the True Source Sect for a hundred years, and his only comfort now.
The scenery outside the carriage window slid backward.
The gates of No. 7 Mine appeared at the edge of his vision.
At first glance, security remained tight. Black military banners snapped in the cold wind, heavy ballistae on the watchtowers gleamed coldly, and the anti-cavalry barricades at the entrance were arranged with meticulous care. Two squads of fully armed guards patrolled in crossing routes, their metal armor clanging resoundingly.
The defenses on display seemed undiminished.
But Thomas merely glanced through the window. Well versed in reconnaissance and intelligence work, he quickly spotted countless flaws beneath the facade.
It was mealtime. If the Black Iron Guard were stationed here at full strength, the chimneys in the supply area should have been belching thick smoke that blotted out the sky, and the air should have been heavy with the robust smell of grease and roasting meat. Instead, those few chimneys lazily released only wisps of smoke-those pitiful fires probably could not even boil enough soup for five hundred men.
More ironic still was the patrol marching with such exaggerated vigor by the entrance. Their brand-new boot