The silence in the Deep Stygian Vaults was not merely the absence of sound. It was a physical mass, heavy and ancient, pressing against the ears like cold water.
Ren Vale sat braced against a huge square pillar of black dark rock, his legs stretched out on the slick stone shelf. Around him, the underground lake lay like a mirror of black glass, stretching into darkness so vast that the lantern light died fifty paces from the shore. No ripples disturbed the surface. No draft stirred the humid, cold air. The air tasted of deep stone salt, wet lime, and the metal sharpness of unmined iron.
He gingerly touched his right forearm, wincing as a sharp spike of pain shot through the bone.
“Don’t press upon the bone-skin,” Artificer Ren commanded, kneeling in the damp sand beside him. The gem-cutter had stripped off his leather coat, using his sleeves to dry his brass tools. He clamped a pair of horn measuring tongs across Ren’s radius, squinting through a 10x jeweler’s magnifying glass. “The hairline fracture extends four inches along the distal third. Your skeletal crystal-forming has reached sixty-two percent thickness. You have the bones of a quartz chandelier, Ren. If you swing an awl with full force, your forearm will splinter like an icicle.”
