The morning came to the Stygian Basin without a sun.
Eighteen thousand paces below the hills of Low-Khorat, the only dawn was the slow shifting of the underground mist from deep sulfur purple to cold, limestone grey. The lignite fire in the iron fire bowl had burned down to fine white ash. A bitter, hyperbaric frost had crystal-hardened along the iron plating of the terrace.
Ren Vale stood beside the packing crates, cinching the oilcloth straps around their leftover field kits.
His movements were steady, unrushed, and precise. Into the heavy lead-lined thick parchment satchel went twelve rolls of salt-resistant calfskin thick parchment, four vials of thick osteo-ink, three spare bone styluses, and a small copper tin of amber animal fat wax for sealing emergency documents. At his right hip, securely buckled into its boiled-leather sheath, hung the carved mammoth ivory awl, its silver metal ring polished clean of green rust.
Beside him, Mira was packing their travel mugs and the copper kettle into a padded canvas haversack.
Her movements were equally composed. The boiled-leather and steel stay that Artificer Ren had fitted around her ribs held her stance straight and firm. Meanwhile, her wool shawl was securely pinned with her bone brooch, covering her smoky quartz right shoulder against the freezing draft. In her apron pocket, she tucked the small linen handkerchief she had finished the night before, its indigo-hemmed border folded into a crisp square.
