The bitter stench of burnt sulfur lingered in the tomb.
Old Barnaby stayed on his knees beside the chained skeletons for a long time. His lone hand rested against the cold flagstones, his fingers trembling in the dark silt.
When he finally rose, his weathered jaw was set with quiet, stubborn fury.
He turned his back on the fifty blackened cauldrons and looked toward the eastern wall of the vast underground cavern.
“Come,” the old alchemist rasped, adjusting his tool belt. “If the imperial censors set up a secret refinery down here, there must be a natural heat source nearby.”
Sera Thorne fell into step beside him, her ancestral spear Storm-Pike resting across her shoulder.
“Should we tell Kaelen?” Sera asked, glancing back toward the turquoise lake where Kaelen had returned to his hammock.
“Leave the lad alone,” Barnaby grunted, trudging through the soft alluvial soil. “He just pushed fifty tons of water and iron. Let him sleep.”
