The brass chariot’s spirit-core groaned like a dying beast, venting thick plumes of superheated steam into the chill morning air.
Beneath the gilded floorboards, the platform’s ravenous drain-array continued to drink. Rivers of liquid gold light bled from the chariot’s primary battery, siphoned straight into the cloud-stone drainage channels.
The First Pill-Moon Tax Warden fell to his knees on the ruined carriage steps. His armored hands clawed at the smoking brass paneling as the vehicle’s glow died away.
“My carriage,” the Warden wheezed, his face turning the color of curdled milk. “Three hundred years of tax assessments. Siphoned into the lower runoff in under two minutes.”
He rose slowly to his feet. Crimson fire erupted along the seams of his celestial plate armor, rattling the iron studs with fury.
His eyes burned with hatred as he turned toward the twelve ascenders.
“Lower-realm filth,” the Warden snarled, his voice vibrating with lethal intent. “You think you can play tricks with municipal audit arrays? You think a few parlor pills make you immortals?”
He reached behind his back with both hands. With a savage twist, he unsheathed an eight-foot polearm forged from blazing star-brass.
