The blue exhaust of the imperial airship vanished into the eastern clouds.
Aboard the crushed deck of the Iron Citadel, Grand Regent Malakor stared at the empty sky, his throat raw from screaming.
The imperial Censorate had abandoned him.
The Censorate airship was already three miles away, fleeing toward the Salt-Waste Frontier as fast as its wind formations could turn.
Beneath Malakor’s back, the hundred-thousand-ton inverted gravity field groaned.
His breastplate was cracked down the middle, his lungs filling with blood, his Nascent Soul dantian trembling on the verge of collapse.
A terrible, rabid madness ignited in the tyrant’s eyes.
“If I can’t have this duchy,” Malakor shrieked through his shattered teeth, “then none of you will live to see the dawn!”
