The air on the Anchor Platform didn’t merely grow cold. It split into three distinct climates.
To the north, the scent of royal wolf-pelt and burning pine flared. Lord Ren stepped forward, his blackened broadsword resting in his iron gauntlet.
To the east, the aroma of bergamot oil and crisp paper notes sharpened the sulfur mist. Vane Vale snapped his counting frame into his left hand, his kidskin gloves flexing with hungry care.
And anchored to the center, his foot-long iron key driven four inches into the central gear-hub of the Mirror Forge, stood Ren-of-the-Trench. His Hadal lantern cast a heavy, steady amber glare across the dark rock floor.
Three fifty-year-old men. One nineteen-year-old boy. Standing at one hundred and twenty degrees on the face of the world.
The contract ledger ratified: Simultaneous Deployment. Tactical Vanguard: Lord Ren (The Ash Emperor) / Geas of Ash. Supply Saboteur: Vane Vale (The Merchant) / Debt Foreclo Heavy & Spatial Anchor: Ren-of-the-Trench (The Warden) /. Target Threat: Grand Inquisitor Malakor & 8 Silver Praetors. Ground Weapon: The Hadal Shackle-Key (Planted in Capstone). Body-energy Cost: Basal Drain: 4.8x / physical Margin: 3 Minute.
Grand Inquisitor Malakor didn’t hesitate. “Fire!” he screamed, his voice cracking with senile fury.
