By three in the morning, the rain had ceased. That left behind a thick, rotten-egg ground fog that coiled around the barricades of the Artisan District like cold wool. The artillery had fallen silent. Even the shrieks of the scout drones out in the salt marshes had subsided into the wet, sucking gurgle of stale mud.
In the roofless inner courtyard of the Artisan Guildhall, between two shattered stone columns draped with damp canvas, a small fire burned in a cast-iron forge fire bowl. Dry birch logs, salvaged from a cooper’s timber rack, crackled softly, throwing dancing orange sparks against the blackened cut stone walls.
Arthur Vance sat on an overturned ammo crate, his back resting against the stone pillar. His combat boots were unlaced, the leather stiff with dried mud and antiseptic wash. Stretched across the heavy steel toes of those boots. It took up half the warmth of the fire, lay Grimm. The Great Shadow Panther was fast asleep, his massive black head resting heavily across Arthur’s shins.
Grimm’s sleep was not silent. Every few minutes, his broad flanks would shudder, his six-inch carbon claws twitching against the stone as he pursued phantom mantises through the dark thickets of his dreams. A low, underground purr shook through his rib cage. A rhythmic, rumbling sound so deep it rattled the loose iron bolts in Arthur’s rifle magazine. Arthur’s hand rested casually on the crown of the beast’s skull, his fingers scratching rhythmically behind the rounded, velvet-lined ears. Each time…
