The third cold-iron blast door dropped into its granite grooves with a dull, underground thud that shook dust from the vaulted ceiling.
Four massive locking pins, each as thick as a man’s thigh, slid home under An Ni’s guidance, sealing the ninth mint vault from the world above.
Here, sixty feet below the underground bazaar, the air was dry, cool. Then it carried the ancient scent of hardened charcoal and dormant iron ore.
The ancient royal cold-forge was a huge underground hall supported by eight-sided dark rock pillars.
At the center of the chamber stood a mammoth forging hearth, carved from a single block of cold-iron star-fallen stone. It was flanked by twin cooling troughs lined with dried sea salt and stone resin.
Massive overhead bellows, connected to underground aqueducts through iron drive-shafts, hung silent in the gloom.
Lu Chen didn’t examine the historical craftsmanship of the royal mint.
His living indicators were flashing red.
