The disused ballast quarry behind the railway depot was a hollow bowl carved from grey shale and crushed dark rock. Decades of heavy freight digging had left behind fractured stone terraces, rusted crane gantries, and mountains of discarded heavy-duty melted rock waste. Puddles of oily rainwater reflected the dull, overcast sky, disturbed only by the cold wind sweeping through the outer edge fence.
Arthur Vance stood twenty paces from the center of the quarry floor, his steel-toed grounding boots planted firmly into the wet gravel. Strapped to his back, the cooling-oil cooling rig purred with a low, rhythmic hum, circulating chilled fluid through copper lines that pressed against his shoulder blades.
Ten paces ahead, Grimm stood waiting. The hound’s soot-black coat was slick with drizzle, his stance alert and balanced. His weight hovered at fifty pounds, yet his presence on the stone felt far heavier—a consequence of the dense, jet-black bone marrow knitting inside his skeleton. His ragged left ear stood erect, catching the whistle of the wind through the crane cables. At the same time, his amber eyes remained locked on the training target.
The target was a five-ton block of dark stone melted rock waste, dumped by a digging crew months prior.
