I sat upright, dislodging the tangled bedding. It was still freezing, though a glance to the broken window suggested dawn was encroaching. But my anger had fortified me against the cold. For I was angry: a little at her, but mostly at myself. It was as if I had spliced a pict of my own before I had even arrived, fuelled by conceit and a thirst for acclaim. I had to move beyond that, deal with the situation as it was.

It was then I heard the siren’s whine. It was faint, and probably would have escaped me were the window still glazed. I glanced to the shattered pane, seeing nothing, but the seer-skulls stirred in their charge-pods, sensing something unseen to me.

A second later it became apparent. A distant smoke trail framed by the morning light.

‘Mizar,’ I murmured. The seer-skull needed no further encouragement, disengaging from its siblings and streaking from the room. Through its eye I saw the craft veering towards us, its flight stilted, the left wing dipping towards the swamp below. It was a Valkyrie, a craft primarily utilised for troop deployment and ground support. One of its engines had failed, but the pilot was doing an impressive job keeping it in the air. It barely cleared the château, its fallen wing clipping the roof as it attempted to set down at the building’s rear, its sole remaining turbofan straining to keep it airborne.

The landing was unfortunate. Such craft are capable of descending vertically, but the pilot must have considered this an impossibility with only one engine. Or perhaps they simply lost control. Either way, the Valkyrie pitched towards the dirt. On an industrial world no one would have survived the impact. But the well-trod quagmire offered a softer landing, the aircraft ploughing a furrow through the grasping mud. Its left wing was torn clear as it spun onto its side, the right wing now pointing skywards. Ground crews were already converging, their extinguisher-packs battling the erupting flames. The pilot was dragged clear, but from the way their head was twisted it was clear they had not survived.

Then the cargo hold was wrenched open. I did not immediately recognise the uniform of the figure emerging from the vessel, his garments bloodied and armour torn. His helm was missing, revealing a crimson gash that covered half his face, and his right arm ended abruptly in a bloody stump, but neither of these injuries prevented him from bellowing at his rescuers. Mizar’s audio sensors were not sophisticated enough to capture the exchange, but one of the ground crew was soon sprinting towards the château, whilst the rest redoubled their efforts. Six more soldiers were liberated from the confines of the craft, and between them there were enough battered pieces of armour to discern their nature.