The iron gangway shuddered beneath Ren’s boots with every twelve-second pulse of the Titan’s heart.
With each beat, a low high-pressure groan echoed through the eight-sided bronze framework of the Crucible. Deep within the core of the tower, valves the size of millstones groaned against fifty sea-weights of high-pressure sky marrow. The vapor that hissed from the copper relief pipes tasted of ozone, crushed quartz, and old salt water. That left a greasy, glowing film across the leather of Ren’s apron.
Lord Ren crossed the threshold first, his shin guards clanking against the brass threshold grating. His broad left arm cradled Brother Ren against his blackened cuirass. The disgraced saint was conscious now. Even so, his breath rattled in his chest like dried peas in a clay pot jug. The burning acid burns on Brother Ren’s shoulders were crusted in dark potion-made propolis. But every pulse of the Titan sent a sympathetic burst through his collarbone, matching the rhythmic thrum of the dying god beneath them.
Behind them, Ren-the-Cinder slipped inside like smoke, his nervous fingers already checking the bronze hinge pins of the heavy outer doors.
“Twin latch-bolts, counter-weighted with lead counter-hangers,” the Coward whispered. His voice shook as he slipped a steel wedge beneath the lower pipe rim. “If the pressure locks engage from the roof, this door drops forty tons of dead bronze. We would be sealed inside the marrow water tanks until the Solstice drains us.”
