The heat was the first thing to die.
In the wake of the "Industrial Massacre," the Obsidian Peak had returned to its
natural state: a skeletal monument of cold, unyielding stone. The silence that
followed the destruction of the heaters and winches was absolute, broken only by
the rhythmic, hollow whistle of the wind as it whipped through the ventilation
shafts. Without the steam-pumps, the lower vaults began to flood with icy
runoff, and the air in the Great Hall turned stagnant, smelling of wet coal and
the bitter desperation of six thousand people who had traded their comfort for
their souls.
I stood in the center of the courtyard, my breath a thick, white plume in the
morning air. I was wrapped in a cloak of heavy mammoth-hide, the weight of it
pressing against my shoulders like the expectations of my people. My hands were
shoved into my pockets, my right thumb tracing the "Feather of Ink" on my left
palm.
