The Steel Factory of the Long Night

Before dawn had fully broken, Finch followed the soldier leading the way, his eyes bloodshot. Five other middle-aged men walked with him.

None of them knew one another, but by the faint torchlight, they could size each other up.

Broad hands, grime that would not wash out from beneath their nails, the lingering smell of iron filings on their clothes—they were all craftsmen who had worked their way up from the bottom.

For now, they trudged along in silence. Whenever their eyes met, they quickly looked away, wary of one another.

Finch walked at the back of the group. He had barely slept last night. Lord Shien's words kept colliding in his mind, leaving his chest burning even as he felt lost.

The group rounded the Inner Fortress and headed deeper into the Defense Zone.

Before they saw the building, a steady noise struck their ears. It sounded nothing like the chaotic hammering of an Inland blacksmith's shop, and there were no foremen shouting themselves hoarse.

Thud—thud—

The heavy beat shook the Frozen Tundra with an oppressive rhythm. Even Finch's teeth began to tingle, deepening his alarm.

At last, they passed through the Gray Fog, and the outline of a vast black-stone building emerged.

Its walls were as thick as a fortress's. Most conspicuous were several stout, iron-clad chimneys pointing straight into the dark sky, spewing dense gray-white steam.

Garrick was already waiting in the wind before the tall, iron-bound double doors, his head held high as he watched them approach.

He was now second-in-command of the fief's Workshop Directorate. With Victor keeping clear of day-to-day affairs, management of the entire factory district fell to Garrick.

As he looked at the six ill-at-ease craftsmen, a flicker of superiority crossed his eyes.

Every one of them had real skill. Otherwise, Lord