Len Vey hauled himself out of the western drainage channel through an iron upkeep hatch forty yards south of the Gate Ward ridge cut.
The night air hit him like a physical blow. Freezing cold, smelling of pine needles, wet granite, and the pure, sharp scent of unsealed snow blowing from the high southern passes beyond Rookvale’s borders. For two miles he had crawled through the black, rushing water of the river drain tube, dragging his braced left arm along the slick stonework, his knees scraped raw against the underwater gravel. But his boots found the rough shale of the surface trail. Then, his Level 5 Surefoot engaged with instant, solid traction. It pulled his battered body up onto the granite low roof wall of the old southern battery.
He stood eighty meters above the valley floor, his back braced against an ancient dark rock embrasure. He looked north across the entire basin of Rookvale.
The view took the breath from his throat.
For twelve years, this valley had been an unbroken bowl of artificial dusk, lit up only by the greasy, sputtering yellow flames of copper lamps and the dull red glow of heavy-duty kilns. Now, beneath the thinned membrane of the dying sky shield, the province was transformed into an ocean of deep, majestic darkness.
