Horizon silver figure sat on a giant mana steel throne from there, he watched, he calculated, and he planned.
Streams of information flowed into him. The primary feed came from the advanced reconnaissance probes—small, insectoid drones with chameleonic skin that clung to the canopy high above Aethelgard. They showed him everything: the frantic reinforcement of the walls, the placement of new, harmonic devices along the ley lines, the mustering of the Sentinel patrols into more efficient, interlocking patterns.
And then there was the secondary feed. The one from Unit K-7L.
Horizon cross-referenced the two, his intellect—a cold, star-like point of logic—sifting through the data for discrepancies. And he found them. They were subtle, elegant even. Lies woven with the precision of a master programmer.
