The shadow of the first five-mile phantom cauldron blotted out the northern sky like the palm of a falling mountain.
Boiling crimson magma dripped from its obsidian rim, vaporizing the upper mist into clouds of stinging chemical steam. Beneath it, the second and third cauldrons rotated in counter-clockwise orbits, their combined gravitational mass pressing down upon the two hundred and twenty-two alliance warships like an iron vise.
The sea ten miles below turned black beneath the immense aerial shadow.
High in the clouds, Sera Thorne, Mina Vance, and Claire Vance were fully engaged, keeping Inquisitor Thorne-Crow pinned three miles away. They could not disengage without allowing the necrotic inquisitor to dive directly into Crater Island’s chimney.
On the terrace of the ascending island, four figures stepped to the forward parapet.
Elder Sterling leaned against his heavy broadsword, his old eyes blazing with battle fury. Beside him stood Princess Valeria, her golden cuirass reflecting the fiery glare above.
Barnaby Holt stood between them, holding his iron ladle in one hand and four golden rectangular talismans in the other. Linnea and Deacon Vane completed the line, their hands steady and their eyes locked on the falling mountains of iron.
“The young master gave us forty-foot chain armor and thirty supreme pills,” Barnaby barked, his voice carrying across the bluffs. “If we let three oversized soup pots scratch his roof, we don’t deserve our salaries.”
