The forges of the Dwarven city thundered like a living heartbeat. Sparks leapt through the air as nearly ten dwarven smiths swarmed around the tablet laid on a bronze table, their tools clanging and rune arrays flickering in the furnace light. Kain stood with his arms crossed, though the rigid tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.
The chief artificer—the first-generation dark dwarf, who barely looked to have aged a day, with his beard braided in silver wire—wiped his forehead and scowled. "It's not the device, Your Grace. The runes are stable, the conduits are fine. It appears as though the device was affected by an outside force rather than an internal issue. Its connection with the world and energy around it seemed to be forcibly choked off."
Kain frowned. "You mean it's not broken?"
