A cloud-wyvern had a wingspan of forty feet, razor-sharp talons, and an unfortunate fondness for warm air.
Lord Giles Croft stood on the narrow check narrow high walkway beneath the main steel keel of the sky-wharf.
One thousand feet of empty mountain air hung between his boots and the slate roofs of Haven-Hold.
Around him, the massive earth-heat exhaust plume from the lower turbine halls surged upward like a roaring column of clean, hot vapor.
The updraft was three hundred feet wide, venting air at fifty degrees directly into the freezing high-sky crosswinds.
Beside Giles, Master Borin Bronze-Lung held his sight fire gauge to his eye, sighting through the dark smoked lens at the steel exhaust hood.
“Three hundred and twenty degrees at the chimney pipe throat,” Borin reported, his beard bristling with soot.
“The heat draft creates an artificial updraft of forty miles per hour.
