The scream that ripped from Ren-the-Cinder’s throat was so shrill, so violent, that it froze three hundred refugees mid-stride on the gallery stairs.
“Stop!” the Coward shrieked, tumbling forward onto his knees and clawing at the flat stone slabs as if trying to dig his fingernails into the granite. His patchwork leathers were soaked in cold sweat, his hood thrown back, his eyes bloodshot and pulsing with scared fight-or-flight rush. “Stop the line! Don’t cross the eastern ramp! Don’t let them touch the arch!”
Ren Vale caught the Coward by his leather shoulder straps, hauling him to his feet.
“Cinder, talk to me!” Ren barked, his mammoth ivory awl held ready in his right hand. “What did you see?”
“Look at the mortar seams on Arch Twelve!” the Coward wheezed, his fingers trembling so hard he dropped his ring of brass keys onto the stone. There, they clattered in a wild, metal jumble. “Look at the lime dust raining into the pool! The water isn’t just rising—it’s scouring the foundation wooden support posts beneath the eastern apron! In six minutes! Six minutes and fourteen seconds!”
[SYSTEM_BOX]
Ren turned his gaze toward the massive stone arch that spanned the eastern half of the water tank. He carried the massive ramp that climbed toward the Middle Spires.
