Twelve hours after the roof measurement, a metallic groan echoed from the rubble of the western lava tube as Sera Thorne hauled an armored figure from the crushed red salt.
The man wore soot-black courier mail stamped with the three silver scythes of the Imperial Censorate.
His iron greaves were crushed flat around his shins, bent like warped spoons by the collapsing rock. He coughed violently, spraying mouthfuls of crimson salt grit onto the damp cavern gravel.
Sera dropped him onto the sand at the edge of the underground lake with a heavy thud.
Commander Wu and three defecting centurions hurried over, their short-swords drawn. They had spent two hours clearing the outer rubble line to make sure no secondary cave-in would puncture the inner cavern wall.
“Is the western passage completely dead?” Wu asked, his voice rough with salt dust.
“Dead and buried under fifty feet of solid mineral,” Sera replied, wiping sweat from her forehead with her forearm. “This fool was tucked into an acoustic crawlspace. He was watching our perimeter through a bronze spyglass when the roof gave way.”
The courier spat a broken tooth onto the dark stones.
