The winch engine roared, pulling the cable upward through three hundred feet of choking sulfur and blinding smoke. Cattleya held Rusty firmly against her ribs with one arm, her legs wrapped around the heavy steel cable, while Dr. Vane clung frantically to the dead executioner”s armored boots dangling just beneath them. The soldier”s sealed suit had stopped thrashing; the liquid fire inside his helmet had consumed his oxygen, leaving a blackened, smoldering husk hanging from the harness. They burst through the heavy iron street grate in a cloud of sparks and pulverized mortar, crashing onto the cobblestones of the Black Iron District”s central plaza. The world above was absolute war. The sky was painted a sickening, apocalyptic orange, illuminated by the burning roofs of three adjacent textile mills. Rain fell as hot grease and black ash, sizzling against Cattleya”s scorched tunic. All around the plaza, heavy steam-powered siege wagons belonging to the First Inquisition had
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