A black iron compass needle spun erratically across a map of White-Lotus Mountain, trembling under the cold gaze of Inquisitor Thorne-Crow.
The high stone war room of the Iron Citadel was freezing cold.
No hearth fire was permitted in the presence of the Imperial Censorate.
Thick curtains of black vulture feathers hung from the vaulted ceiling, absorbing the sound of the howling northern wind.
Inquisitor Thorne-Crow leaned over a massive basalt war table carved with relief contours of the river valley.
His bone mask gleamed with pale, oily highlights under the green glow of two soul-lamps.
Across the table sat Grand Regent Malakor, clad in heavy ducal robes of crimson silk embroidered with scorpions.
Behind Malakor stood Siege General Vorn, a towering warrior whose arms were encased in spiked star-iron gauntlets.
