The third crucible crypts sat four hundred feet beneath the active smelting trenches, carved into the cold dark rock bedrock where the fiery rift met ancient underground water beds.
The air here was damp and smelled of wet soot, stale lime, and iron shavings. It was silent save for the muffled, rhythmic thrum of the great steam pumps six levels above. An underground heartbeat that shook through the damp stone walls. Every thirty yards, water dripped from the ceiling into carved rock gutters. He carried away the rust-colored runoff from the melted rock waste drain pits. Hundreds of years of soot had hardened along the dark rock arches. It formed thick, black stalactites that cried cold bitter-salt moisture onto the stone flags below.
Ren Vale supported Mira with his left arm, his boots squelching in the black sludge of the floor.
Behind them walked Unit Ren, moving with a noticeable high-pressure limp. His left forearm hung loosely in its socket, oil dripping from the torn casing where the skirmishers’ flechettes had compromised his backup return line. Ren-the-Cinder took point twenty yards ahead, his sixteen brass skeleton keys silenced inside an oiled rag, his head swiveling at every water drip and air draft as his Exit Compass mapped the dark tunnels.
