The salt crust covering the Inner Sanctum shuddered under the rhythmic, bone-shaking impact of a forty-pound brass line-weight-bob striking the silver glass. Clang. Clang. Clang. Each strike drove a five-inch star-iron stake directly into the floor, anchoring heavy braided steel tension cables that stretched toward the ceiling vaults like the rigging of a giant iron warship. Marshal Ren, the Siege-Master, stood upon the western flank of the dais, his high-collared artillery officer’s coat buttoned tight against the sub-zero draft. His brass rangefinder was held firmly against his right eye. Behind him, three massive field-giant crossbows forged from hardened star-iron and gold-silver metal leaf were already anchored into battery, their winches clicking under twenty tons of clockwork torque.
In his unchosen timeline from the High Spire Siege, Ren had risen through the ranks of the Grand Duchy’s artillery corps during the aerial siege of the High Spires. He had spent twenty years calculating high-speed parabolas, load-bearing wind-shear, and the pulling limits of heavy stonework under nonstop bombardment. He didn’t possess the poetic mysticism of the Astrologer or the feral speed of the Nomad. He was a master of applied shape, an engineer who treated war as an exercise in load-bearing loading. ‘Range: twenty-eight paces,’ the Marshal barked. His voice carried the sharp, clipped power of an artillery commander. ‘Target advance rate: zero point two paces per second. Compass bearing locked at ninety-four degrees. Artificer, calibrate the sound dampeners!’
