The first, heavy snowfall of the year blanketed the extreme northern edge of Province Seven, turning the rugged, unforgiving hills near the perilous ceasefire line into a landscape of pristine, deceptive white. The storm had come early, catching the local garrisons off guard and freezing the mud of the mountain passes into iron-hard ruts. It was a beautiful, terrifying kind of weather, the sort that made armies stall and logistics crumble.
Torvald Hessen, his breath pluming in the freezing air, walked slowly up the steep, familiar trail, leaning heavily on a thick wooden walking stick. He was bundled tightly in a thick, woolen coat, his face half-buried in a scarf to protect against the biting wind. A heavy leather satchel, worn smooth by years of use, was slung tightly across his narrow chest. Inside the satchel were three hollowed-out prayer books.
Inside the books were the flawed Mark VIII schematics.
