Soot dusted Kaelen’s shoulders as he stepped through the smoking gap and onto the iron catwalk of the Central Furnace Hall.
Behind him, Sera kept her star-iron pike low, her knuckles white against the dark ash-wood shaft. Barnaby followed with a heavy iron wrench tucked into his belt, while Mina guided Garrick by the chain of his wrist-manacles. The second young master of the Vance family stumbled every four paces, his fingers trembling against the polished beads of his sandalwood abacus.
Down below, three hundred cinnabar miners froze on the stone tiers, their shovels and iron pans suspended over glowing troughs of molten red ore.
The air smelled of sulfur, wet ash, and scorched metal. Across the chasm, perched on the gilded upper gallery, Vice-President Harlan stood behind fifty elite Nine-Cauldron Guild enforcers. Their heavy iron crossbows were already cocked, strings taut and bolts aimed directly into the pit.
Blood-Captain Varga stood twenty yards away on the central smelting terrace. His jagged cleaver dripped with grease, and his broad face was purple with fury.
“Auditors!” Varga bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted granite ceiling.
“Shoot them down! They blew up the northern intake shaft—they’re mine thieves trying to sabotage Guild property!”
