Forty thousand pairs of iron-capped boots slogged through the grey river silt along the banks of the Iron-Rill.
Sera Thorne walked at the head of the vanguard. The cold autumn river wind whipped the hem of her dark leather coat against her greaves.
Ahead of the army, Iron-Bridge Prefecture rose from the morning mist like a crouched iron beast.
The fortress was built directly into the jagged basalt cliffs of the gorge. A colossal bridge of black pig-iron spanned the churning, white-water rapids below, connecting the eastern trade roads to the imperial heartlands.
For two centuries, the Censorate had used this chasm to choke trade and enforce imperial mandates. Now, it served a far darker purpose.
Thick bronze conduits, each wide enough to ride a warhorse through, snaked down the fortress walls and plunged deep into the mountain roots.
The conduits glowed with a dull, sickening crimson pulse. They vibrated with subterranean heat, pumping stolen earth-fire toward twelve provincial Blood-Tax Altars across the eastern territory.
“Twelve altars,” Sera murmured, her calloused fingers tightening around the silver-wrapped grip of Storm-Pike. “Twelve provinces choked with blood-mist.”
