The northern winch platform hung forty feet above the black water, an iron balcony bolted into the dark rock ceiling by six massive three-inch bronze anchor pins.
In the center of the platform stood the Master Tension Capstan. An eight-foot iron drum wrapped in four-inch braided iron cables that stretched across the empty air of the water tank to the cracking crown of Arch Twelve.
Lord Ren stood at the rope winch’s main lever—a six-foot bar of solid forged iron.
His gauntleted hands gripped the cold metal, his broad boots braced against the raised iron coaming. Across his scarred lower jaw, the white line of his crossbow wound pulsed with dark, furious rhythm. With a low, deep-throated roar that echoed off the granite vaults, the Emperor threw his entire weight against the lever.
The iron drum screamed. Rust and dried grease flaked from the gears in a red shower.
Across the vast underground cathedral, the braided iron cables snapped taut with the sound of a giant harp string being plucked by a giant statue. A low, musical drone shook through the air.
Out in the center of the water tank, the cracking granite arch stones of Arch Twelve groaned, shuddered. Then it ceased their descent. The gap in the keystone closed by two inches as the titanic iron cables absorbed sixty tons of sideways tearing force. He anchored the failing arch directly to the mountain bedrock.
