Midnight had settled over the gorge of the Seventh Smelting Ward.
The shouting, the clattering of chains, and the pompous declarations of royal censors had all vanished into the cold mountain darkness.
Down in the lower yard, the foundries were quiet.
Crucibles One through Four rested on low draft, their chimneys puffing thin, lazy plumes of white smoke into the frost.
At the entrance to the office hall, a lantern lit up a newly carved iron signboard bolted to the rock face. Sovereign Technical Sanctuary of the Seventh Ward — Autonomous Chartered Zone.
Inside the office, Elder Wu DeZheng was fast asleep with his head pillowed on his newly approved pension ledger, a faint, contented smile on his round face as he snored rhythmically.
In the barracks, Meng Shan sat by the hearth with nineteen of his quarry brothers, drinking coarse barley wine from clay bowls. Their skin glowed with the iron-hard luster of polished dark rock.
And in the drafting shop, Shen Yue leaned over a long drafting table. It hummed quietly as she cataloged fifty new null-deep ring boundary scrolls, her dual-threaded mind spinning in easy, timed together bliss.
