The clouds that dropped from the sky-fleet at midnight were not born of water or frost. They were born of alchemy, acid, and high-born malice.
Furious over the destruction of the Zephyr and the cut mooring thick ship rope, Lord Malakor didn’t waste more solid shot against the mountain’s anchored stone. From the undercarriages of four hovering Spire cruisers, heavy brass discharge pipe hubs swung downward, venting high-pressure streams of dense, emerald-green burning acid vapor into the alpine wind.
It was heavier than air.
The green fog didn’t scatter into the storm. It rolled down the granite stone props of Mount Khor-Vann like an oily, glowing waterfall, pooling in the dry moat and pouring over the crenellations of Cloud-Rest’s outer courtyard. Where the vapor touched the flat stone slabs, the frost instantly hissed into yellow foam. The lichens and moss clinging to the stone curled black and dissolved into slime. The pine timbers of the supply carts began to smoke, their grain dissolving into acidic pulp.
In the gatehouse archway, two backup guards took a single breath of the downdraft.
They didn’t scream. They collapsed onto their knees. They clawed at their throats. The acidic vapor melted their lung linings, blood and yellow froth pouring through their fingers as they suffocated on their own dissolving lungs.
