The final two minutes of the sixth day lengthened until every second felt like a heavy drop of cold oil falling from an ungreased axle.
Len walked out onto the high timber overhead frame overlooking the central railway yard of Tram Ward. Below him, the vast expanse of the basin lay shrouded in the familiar, rotten-egg dusk that had covered Rookvale for twelve years. But it was no longer an empty prison. Across the dark floor, clusters of white lantern light moved in steady, purposeful patterns—wagons rolling toward the incline, runners jogging along the ballast, workers hauling sandbags and fire hoses to the shelter perimeters.
From this high vantage ninety feet above the rail sidings, the geography of the coalition lay revealed in the dark. To the west, the glowing brick chimneys of Salt Ward showed as faint cherry-red crowns against the soot canopy. There, Melli Dorn’s annealing ovens had cooled the stone armor. To the south, the deep terraced steps of the limestone quarry were marked by the swinging yellow lanterns of Edda’s pump crews, guarding the sump pumps against sudden back-flooding. Along the eastern curve, the dark, oily surface of the heavy-duty canal reflected the torches of the rivermen at Pier Three. There, Brand held the heavy bronze key to the floodgates. In the center of the valley, the high green glass cupolas of Orchard Ward vented plumes of pale, damp vapor into the night air. And far to the north, perched on its granite shelf, the massive…
