The iron teeth of the ceiling grates descended through the smoke, screeching like dying beasts as their ancient gears turned.
Heavy chains rattled against overhead pulleys, showering rust and iron flakes over the stone terrace. The four array pillars glowed with angry crimson light. Runes carved deep into the basalt pulsed in rapid succession, locking down the perimeter with spirit-suppressing wards.
“Die in the furnace, Vance,” Vayne shouted from the control platform, his hand locked around the master iron lever.
Inner disciples from the Morvane house and the Armaments Guild scrambled toward the terrace edges. Nobody wanted to be caught beneath five tons of descending black iron. The air grew thick with sulfur and the choking stench of burning grease.
Kaelen stood beside the cold basalt anvil, holding his earthenware teacup.
He did not run. He did not look for an open door.
Running with hot tea is how people ruin good linen, Kaelen thought. Besides, anyone who mounts iron gears over an open magma vent clearly failed basic carpentry.
Deep within his mind, the Fallow Slate hummed with brilliant clarity.
