The workshop was quiet, save for the hiss of steam and the clack-clack of Hollow pacing the rafters.
I had the Centurion stripped down to its chassis on the main bench. The damage was uglier in the daylight. The central spine—a composite of reinforced bear femurs—had torqued thirty degrees during the avalanche. The glass plating on the left flank was spiderwebbed with stress fractures, though it hadn't shattered.
"It's a mess," Gareth said, leaning on a broom. He looked better than he had yesterday, though his ears were still peeling from the frostnip.
"It's twisted," I said. "Not broken."
Mira was mixing a bonding paste in a stone bowl. "Bone has memory," she said. "If we heat it and clamp it, it might snap back. Or it might shatter."
"It won't shatter," I said. "It's soaked in Darkflow residue. It's tougher than green wood."
