Deacon Vane slipped through the steaming drainage flues of Sector Two, his gray cloak blending into the oily soot.
He pressed his back against the curved basalt wall.
A foul, sulfurous vapor hissed from the overhead pipes, carrying the acrid stench of molten slag and burnt spirit herbs.
Inside the Obsidian Furnace District, the air was poison.
Every breath filled an ordinary cultivator’s meridians with bitter grit.
Even Foundation Establishment captains felt their blood vessels throb after three weeks of forced labor.
Vane adjusted the coarse hemp sack slung over his shoulder.
Beside him, Alchemist Linnea pulled her silk veil tighter across her nose and mouth.
