The contact of Ren Vale’s ink-poisoned blood with the fossil ivory lock produced an immediate, violent reaction.
HIIIIIIISSSSS.
A plume of bitter, white steam erupted from the weeping eye. It smelled of scorched marrow and ancient vinegar. Deep within the five-inch-thick iron portal, four massive balance weights of cold-rolled lead shifted with a heavy, underground CLUNK-CLUNK.
The black iron door swung inward with zero-drag, terrifying smoothness, revealing the inner sanctum of the First Vault.
Ren stepped across the threshold, holding his flickering animal fat candle aloft.
The chamber was small. Twelve paces across, circular, carved directly out of the living solid mountain stone. There were no chairs, no bookshelves, no gold-trimmed decorations. In the center of the room stood an eight-sided altar of black dark rock, upon which rested a heavy metal tube of hammered lead banded with cold-forged iron.
Beside the altar, hovering in the cold shadows, appeared Scribe Ren (The King’s Forger).
The eighth summon was silent, his dark velvet coat dusted with grave-powder, his silver pool quill gripped tightly between his ink-stained fingers. His cynical, mocking expression had fully vanished, replaced by the deep, respectful tension of a master craftsman approaching the original masterwork of his guild.
