The heat hit them three miles outside the outer gates, carrying the thick stench of sulfur, melted lead, and scorched copper.
Rising from the jagged black obsidian bedrock, seven colossal spires encircled a vast sunken plaza. Each tower was shaped like a fluted alchemy crucible, tapering into the sky where plumes of orange and purple smoke drifted lazily toward the clouds.
At the base of the seven towers, the earth cracked open into glowing lava fissures.
This was Seven-Tower Alchemy City, the industrial heart of the Imperial Conclave.
Kaelen Vance adjusted the brim of his battered straw hat, shielding his eyes from the volcanic glare. He walked with slow, deliberate steps along the crowded slag-paved road, his coarse cotton furnace-boy tunic hanging loosely over his frame.
This entire city smells like an uncleaned chimney, Kaelen thought, wrinkling his nose in distaste. If people spent half as much time sleeping as they do burning expensive charcoal, the world would have fifty percent fewer wars and far better skin.
Behind him walked three figures dressed in shapeless burlap smocks, their faces streaked with charcoal paste.
Sera Thorne carried an iron ash-shovel across her shoulder, her sharp gray eyes darting across the guard towers. Mina Vance walked beside her, carrying a wicker ash-basket with small, careful steps. Elder Sterling brought up the rear, his back hunched like an aging laborer leaning heavily on an iron-tipped broom.
