Unit Ren moved with the cold, steady pace of a heavy-duty balance-beam. His left arm was a massive air-powered vice-wrench forged from hardened star-iron. His right leg clicked with internal brass escapements with every step. His jaw was wrapped in a riveted steel brace that locked his teeth into an unbending, clockwork grimace. A steady plume of white steam vented from the exhaust pipe hub between his shoulder blades. It carried the sharp, chemical stench of scorched whale oil and machine grease across the freezing floor of the Sanctum. Beside him, Lord Ren, the Ash Emperor, stood tall, his five-foot greatsword of dull star-iron resting against his shoulder. His wolf-pelt mantle dragged across the silver glass, dark blood crusted across his beard from the shattering of his breastplate.
‘The monk bought us forty-five heartbeats,’ Lord Ren said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp of iron over slate. ‘We don’t spend them in useless lamentation. A king doesn’t mourn his vanguard while the enemy is within archery range.’ The Emperor turned his scarred face toward Ren Prime, his hard grey eyes fully empty of self-pity. ‘Stand up, boy. Pull the ink from your satchel. If we’re to fall in this hall, we will fall like soldiers, not like frightened children cowering behind an empty linen habit.’ Behind them on the central dais, Mira sat motionless. Her smoky quartz arm glowed with a deep violet soft glow. It hummed at the concert pitch of pure silver to maintain the load-bearing boundary of…
