The stairwell groaned under the weight of the second blast wave.
Qiao Ming dropped the spiral steps of the northern tower, his bare soles slapping rhythmically against the cold banded limestone treads. Each step was eighty paces wide, carved for the stride of ancient titans, forced into human work only by the narrow path worn smooth along the inner curve where hundreds of years of moisture had hollowed a shallow channel.
The stone shook with a rhythmic, clockwork rhythm that set his teeth on edge. It was the screaming deep ring of stressed steel—cold-hammered astral iron being ripped apart along its rivet lines. High above, through the air-flow grates that pierced the sixty-arm-length vault, the smell arrived. Scorched void-grease, ozone, burning animal fat, and the bitter, choking reek of overheated copper coils.
Behind him, Yan Zhiqiu kept pace, her hand steadying the canvas sling that held the Broken Slate against her ribs. Her face was taut, her dark eyes reflecting the swinging arc of the amber animal fat lamp suspended from Qiao Ming’s belt.
‘That was the second impact,’ she said, raising her voice over the hollow roar that echoed down the chimney pipe. ‘Closer than the first. Entry hall 002 or 003.’
