The harsh clang of a bronze gong tore across the canyon scrub at sunrise on day thirty-one.
Up by the main elevator headframe, an iron-lunged mine crier stood atop a wooden shipping crate, bellowing through a flared brass horn. The sound reverberated between the sheer sandstone bluffs, loud enough to wake every barracks and work camp within three miles of the gorge.
“Notice from the Mine Command Office!” the crier shouted, his gravelly voice carrying the arrogant cadence of an official decree. “By order of Blood-Captain Varga, all delinquent records, uncollected collateral, and three-year-old surveyor effects from the Shaft 4 collapse are declared abandoned property! To clear storage space for central furnace expansion, every old contract, personal journal, and Marcus Thorne’s broken spear tip will be cast into the central smelting furnace in four days!”
Across the canyon terraces, tired laborers poked their heads out of shanties, muttering in low, fearful whispers before ducking back inside. Nobody dared question an order stamped with Varga’s iron seal.
High on the western ridge overlooking the canyon path, Sera Thorne stood rigid as a cast-iron pillar.
The morning breeze whipped loose strands of dark hair across her face, but she didn’t blink. Her hands gripped the ash wood of her Storm-Pike so hard the tough leather bindings groaned beneath her fingers. Her knuckles were drained of all color, white as bone.
