The twin blades of Judge-General Vaelen’s scythe didn’t reflect the orange glow of the inner fires.
They reflected pale, watery daylight from a morning that had not yet happened. Vaelen stepped forward across the shaking iron plates of the gear platform. Then, the air around the crescent edges warped into shimmering heat ripples. He smelled of crushed wild roses and fresh spring rain. The scent of an un-burned future being snapped into weaponized minutes.
“You have twenty seconds to recant the writ,” Vaelen said. His voice was calm, almost liturgical, devoid of the heavy-duty fury that shook the chamber. “Step back from the pipe hub, boy. Take your ivory toy and return to the ditch where you belong. If you touch that pipe again, I’ll harvest your leftover years and feed them to the shuttle pins.”
Ren Vale stood upon the narrow girder, his silver-streaked hair plastered to his cheeks with greasy soot. He didn’t step back. He slipped the ivory bone awl into the leather sheath sewn against his ribs. His ink-stained fingers dropped to the rough grip of his cobbler’s knife.
“The writ is sealed, Vaelen,” Ren said, his voice raspy from inhaled sulfur. “The Ouros steam is already cavitating. In forty minutes, your precious loom will be spinning empty air.”
