The rhythmic thrum of the stabilized Earth-Fire Array vibrated through the iron catwalks of the Central Furnace Hall.
Where black smoke and toxic sulfur fumes had choked the lower galleries yesterday, only a clean, dry warmth now rose from the basalt pits. The newly purified magma glowed like polished amber beneath the grated floorboards.
Kaelen Vance sat slouched in a plush, velvet-lined armchair that two reformed mine guards had carried down from Blood-Captain Varga’s private office.
He wore his faded grey cotton bathrobe over his trousers, his bare feet tucked into a pair of oversized fleece slippers. On a low ironwood table before him, a clay pot of roasted barley tea simmered over a small bronze spirit-burner.
Mina stood beside the chair, carefully pouring a fresh cup for her brother. Her cheeks were pink from the pleasant ambient heat, her childhood chill entirely banished.
If anyone expects a man to put on formal robes before noon, Kaelen thought, taking a slow sip, they shouldn’t schedule financial negotiations in a subterranean boiler room.
Across the table sat Vice-President Harlan and Elder Iron-Guan.
Both Guild officials looked bone-tired after spending eighteen consecutive hours cataloging chained bandits, clearing collapsed slag tunnels, and sealing rogue magma flues. Yet behind their fatigue, their eyes carried the deep relief of men who had narrowly avoided losing an entire mining district.
