The cavern stank of iron and sweat.
Caedrion's hands were raw from work, his palms seared with lines of chalk and blood where sigils had cut too deep.
Around him the forge roared, its fire tinted with the rust-gold resonance of ley energy, the floor littered with shattered prototypes, cracked shells, coils that had refused to hold.
He had been at this for days without rest, but now time was gone.
Twelve hours. No more.
The leash pulsed against his chest, faint but steady, a reminder of the promise that bound him.
At the appointed hour, the abyss would call, and Thalassaria's coils would close around him again.
He grit his teeth, bending once more over the lattice he'd been carving into the alloy shell.
Each line of the sigil trembled with power; one slip and the whole thing would burn out like the last five failures.
His hand shook.
"Steady," said the voice behind him.
