‘And her guests?’ I asked as he assisted me.

‘All uninjured,’ Stylee replied, his tone suggesting otherwise. I did not press the matter.

‘I still cannot believe they reached the château,’ he muttered as we made for the door. ‘The Harvest Banquet is a tradition dating back millennia. This is the first time in recorded history it has been interrupted, and there will be consequences. Governor Dolos prioritised the safety of her guests last night, but this morning she will be demanding explanations. I have no doubt heads will roll.’

We progressed along a barely lit corridor. Men slumped against the walls, awaiting their turn with the chirurgeon, while Stylee continued his diatribe.

‘Lord and Lady Pompo were astounded by what happened. But you know those two will spread whispers across the sector. It reflects badly on all of us, that’s what those glory-seekers don’t realise. After a fiasco like this they move on to their next little war, leaving us to deal with the fallout. Any time we offer our hospitality there will be whispers, snide remarks about whether the event will go ahead. As if any of them could have done better.’

He was quite animated now, his gazed fixed to a point unseen. I looked away, spotting Flight Sergeant Plient sitting beside a grey-faced young man whose breath was a shudder. He glanced up, offering a well-intentioned smile that did little to convince me anything was going well.

We were nearly at the bunker’s exit, steps leading to a door framed by a halo. Beyond it, the sky was so bright I had to shield my eyes as I surveyed what remained of the grounds. Once a muddied field, it was but craters, the turf carved open by the cascade of explosive rounds. Ground crew were clearing the wreckage, but I found my gaze drawn to the château.

The structure was remarkably intact, the aged mandack wood proving resilient to the assault. But the blossom had been incinerated, leaving the outer bark scorched black. Blue petals were scattered across the grounds, perhaps blown clear by the initial explosion. I reached for a nearby handful, and was surprised to find they were stuck to the runway. The flowers were dry to the touch, desiccated, as though long preserved.

I glanced to Stylee. He was quite still, eyes misted. He no longer supported my weight, slipping from under my arm and taking a stumbling step towards the château. He must have been in the field hospital since before the sun had risen, and had not known the extent of the damage. The poor man. His meticulously managed world no longer made sense.

But there was no sorrow in his voice when he spoke, only barely suppressed rage.

‘Someone must face judgement for this abomination!’ he spat, turning to me. I was surprised to be included in his confidence. But I suppose whatever my other failings, I was not a part of the military.